As We Lean Into the Light
by Mergatroid Skittles
Summary: She doesn't know what she's doing.  She can't believe what she's doing, what he's doing to her. She does know what they're doing is wrong. But she wants more. She wants him.  Reposting. Set S1 after "Throwdown" and beyond. Finchel.
1. How Can I Tell You?

"_How can I tell you that I love you..."_

The weather matches her mood today – gray, pale, no sun breaking through, melancholy. She stands on her front porch, looking at the washed out sky, debating whether or not to take an umbrella with her. Will the drizzle turn into rain? It's a good day to hide inside the house and read...if she didn't have to go school. Her stomach hurts a little bit at the thought of going. Too much drama there lately. She is nothing if not a girl who usually loves her drama – making it, being in the middle of it – but lately it's just been too painful. Maybe she'll get lucky and Quinn's parents will have shipped her off to a home for fallen women by now.

She can't help grinning a little at that thought before scolding herself. Quinn is her teammate and her...friend? No. Colleague? No. Frenemy, at the very best. Whatever she is, Rachel does truly believe they need to stick together right now, no matter what's between them. No matter _who_ is between them. All sweet-smiling, brown-eyed, six-foot-three of him.

At least she'll get to see him today.

And right on cue, the sun makes a bid to peek through the haze. She pulls up the hood on her pink raincoat and decides against taking the umbrella.

* * *

><p>When the sun goes back in its hidey hole, she walks a little faster, humming to herself, looking at the sidewalk to avoid squishing any worms. Worms are gross and she doesn't really care about hurting them, she just doesn't want to get worm guts on her new Converse. They're custom-made, pink and red, and she'd hate—<p>

"Oof!" she gasps, running smack into something large and hard. She stumbles back and looks up to see what she's run into. Six-foot-three, brown eyes, but not smiling just now, he's just standing in the middle of the sidewalk, looking up at the sky. His face is shiny with moisture and she guesses instantly he's been standing here awhile. He doesn't even look down to see what's hit him. It's like he's a thousand miles away in the middle of Grove Street. "Finn!"

He finally looks down and stares at her for a minute, his face blank, like he's not sure what he's seeing, like he's trying to decide if she's real. She smiles at him and he seems to come back to himself, waking up. "Hi, Rachel. What are you doing here?"

"Walking to school."

"Oh yeah. Me too." But he just stands there looking at her.

"Want to walk with me?" she asks timidly.

"Totally."

She smiles at him again and fights off the urge to take his arm. They walk, but slower than she had been before. He sets the pace and doesn't seem to be in a hurry. And he's not saying anything. She bites her lip, feeling the need to fill the void, feeling the need to reel him back from wherever he is. She racks her brain for a safe topic. The weather, that's safe.

"So how about this—"

"Don't you love this kind of weather?" he asks, cutting her off. She laughs to herself – she wasn't the only one hoping to fill the void, it seems.

"Yeah," she says. "It's like...like you still get that fresh, clean rain scent in the air but you don't get totally soaked."

"Yes! That's exactly what it's like," he agrees, nodding his head excitedly, grinning like she hasn't seem him do since he was on Mrs. Schuester's blue pills. Wow, he must _really_ love this weather.

"And everything sort of looks like we're walking through a JRR Tolkien novel," she adds.

"That's the 'Lord of the Rings' guy, right?" She nods and he beams again. "Yeah! You're totally right." He sighs deeply, but he's smiling, his eyes bright in the dim morning light. He seems happy now, not lost at sea like he was when she found him, and that makes her happy. Proud.

"Hey, Rach, guess what?" he says a half a block later, touching her hand briefly. It's just a brush but her heart sings.

"What?"

"Quinn's going to have a girl."

Now her heart feels like a block of cement in her chest, crushing her lungs so she can hardly breathe. "Oh." She tries to sound a little more cheerful, for his sake. "Wow. I-I didn't know that."

"Yeah, and after I found out, I started thinking of all these baby names, you know? I just couldn't help it. It was like, wow, this is real, really real, so she should have a name."

Rachel keeps her head down, squeezing her eyes shut for a moment, trying to tamp down the burning sensation in her throat. "What-what names?" she manages to choke out.

So he tells her about how he Googled celebrity baby names and about his love for apples and how that somehow led to the creation of the best baby name _ever_. "Drizzle," he finishes.

"Drizzle," she repeats. "Like the weather?"

"Exactly. What do you think?"

Rachel ponders how to answer that. "What did Quinn think?"

"She hated it," he says, a frown creasing his forehead. Rachel can't say she blames the other girl, but then Finn goes on, "She doesn't want to pick a name at all. She wants to...get rid of it. Like, adoption."

Rachel can see the conflict rippling across his gentle, open face; she can hear the sadness in his voice, the pain. It makes her sad, too, his emotions hers. It's weird – Rachel knows that Finn and Quinn are far from prepared or equipped to be parents, and certainly adoption is the best choice, but she can't help feeling, too, that Finn would take to it like a duck to water. He'd be wonderful as a father – most boys his age would be running for the nearest Greyhound bus out of town if they found out their girlfriend were pregnant. But not him. Rachel kind of hates Quinn more than ever – she's lucky a thousand times over to have gotten pregnant by this boy and not some other boy. Someone like Puck, for example.

She doesn't ask what he'd rather do about the baby – she knows, she thinks, so she reverts to the original topic. "I think Drizzle might be a hard name to grow up with, Finn," she says honestly.

"You do?"

"A little. Especially for a girl. Girls want pretty names."

"Like Rachel," he says simply, off-handedly, and she almost trips, stumbling forward. "Whoa!" He catches her by the arm, keeping her upright. "Careful there."

"Th-thanks," she says, embarrassed, blushing. But when he folds his arm around hers, keeping her close as they continue walking, her cheeks burn brighter as her heart starts to race. She can't help it – she grips his arm, taking the opportunity given. She can feel the hard muscles under his letter jacket.

"So what would you name her instead?" Finn continues.

Picking a name for her would-be boyfriend's baby by another girl... Not how she imagined this walk going when she started it. "Um, I dunno. You said you like apples, right?"

"But Apple is already taken. I don't want to be a copy-cat."

"What about Pink Lady, then?" Rachel suggests, off the top of her head. "That's a kind of apple. They're my favorite."

"Pink Lady," he repeats slowly, like he's tasting the name in his mouth. "Pink Lady. Pink Lady Hudson." The grin that spreads across his face is an easy replacement for the day's lacking sun.

"Pink Lady Hudson," she says, too, liking that he likes it. Liking it despite the deep ache it causes her. "You could call her Pinky."

"I love it. That's the best baby name ever," he says, apparently forgetting all about ill-fated Drizzle. Rachel watches him as he seems to contemplate his future daughter, Pink Lady; she can almost see how her life flashes before his eyes, the softness that comes to his face as he pictures all the ways he'll spoil daddy's little girl Pinky.

Rachel loves him. The realization emerges like a memory resurfacing – she knew it somewhere in her mind but hadn't really _known_ it until just now. Not a crush, not an infatuation, not an obsession. She loves him. She knows it. She almost says it out loud, the words pushing against her lips. She can't let them out, though. It wouldn't be fair - not fair to him because he's still with Quinn, sticking with her. And not fair to herself, either. She has to protect herself.

As mercurial as the sun, however, his face changes again. Rachel thinks he should never take up poker. A darkness falls over him, his grin gone, the softness replaced by hurt and sadness. They slow down and stop, coming to the curb at an intersection. She can see the school on the other side of the street, the low buildings surrounded by the huge, treeless grounds. A car passes but they don't cross the street, just standing there, and he says quietly, almost to himself, "But she's getting rid of it." He drops his arm, letting hers slip away. He looks her in the eyes, searching for something. An answer maybe, like she could have one. "She's giving the baby to someone else."

She doesn't know what to say about that – there's nothing she can say, nothing she can do but reach out for him, take his hand, hold it in hers. She thinks she sees tears in eyes but then can't be sure because the sky finally cracks open, dropping sheets of rain down on them, suddenly, fiercely.

Just as suddenly but without the ferocity, he pulls her closer, a hand around her waist, leaning down as she stretches up, her hood falling away as they kiss. She tastes the rain and his mouth; she feels her hair getting soaked and his hand on her back. She's drowning in the rain, in him. She won't push him away.

He ends the kiss gently, wiping wet strands of hair off her face. "I can't go in there," he says, and if they weren't so close, she wouldn't be able to hear him over the rain. She wonders for a moment what he means but it's clear when he adds, "Let's ditch school today."

Rachel's eyes get wide. She has never ditched a day of school, not even when people started throwing slushies on her. Ditching school means detentions and groundings and uncomfortable consequences. Ditching school is for the bad kids. Rachel Berry doesn't ditch school. But Rachel Berry has never been in love before. "Okay," she hears herself say.

* * *

><p>"<em>I long to tell you that I'm always thinking of you..."<em>

She stands in the hall outside his bedroom, shivering, watching from there as he digs through his dresser drawer. He finds a sweatshirt and gives it a sniff. "These are clean," he says, bringing the shirt and a pair of gym shorts to her. She thanks him, still shivering, but half her shivers aren't from being cold, she knows. She's nervous and excited being here, alone with him in his house, ditching school, with no idea what's going to happen.

"Bathroom's there," he says, pointing the way. "There are towels in the closet behind the door." She shivers again, and he says, "If you want...if you want to take a hot shower, go for it."

"I think I just need to get these wet clothes off," she answers.

"Yeah." He's quiet for a moment and she can't bring herself to look at him, the nerves and shyness overwhelming. "Me too."

She nods and turns away, going into the bathroom and shutting the door, leaning heavily against it as she tries to calm down and stop shaking. She catches sight of herself in the mirror and almost doesn't recognize herself. She's used to seeing a young girl staring back, someone full of girlish wishes and dreams but with no real experience of the world. Now, though she still sees the girl there, she thinks she can see someone else, someone older, peeking through, waiting to emerge. It's a strange feeling, an out-of-body sensation. She doesn't know what it means.

She emerges from the bathroom dressed in his old Woodrow Wilson Jr. High sweatshirt, which isn't _too_ enormous, the drawstring of his shorts cinched tight around her waist, and her hair restored thanks to the blow-dryer she found in the closet. She feels a bit more normal now, calmer, in control of herself. She thinks it's the hair, actually; if her hair is okay, she's okay.

She finds him in the kitchen, staring at the coffee maker while it dribbles into the pot. He's cleaned up too, in a pair of long track pants and a gray t-shirt, his feet bare like hers. She's never seen him without shoes on before and for some reason the sight of his feet fascinates her. They're big. And pale. And finely shaped.

"There you are," he says. "Girls sure do take a long time in the bathroom." She gives him a look and he grins that goofy grin of his, the one that kills her every time. "Do you want some coffee?"

"I'd love some. With lots of milk and sugar, please."

"You got it." She watches him move around the kitchen, preparing two cups for them. She laughs at his excitement when he finds a package of Entenmann's donut holes in the cupboard. One would think he'd just found Blackbeard's buried treasure chest in there, not donuts. He stuffs one in his mouth and offers her one, too. She normally doesn't eat pastries – totally empty calories – but today she's doing a lot of things she doesn't normally do, it seems.

God, that's a good donut, she decides, savoring each little bite she nibbles off.

"You know," he starts, still chewing his own donut and judiciously picking out a second from the box, "since Quinn isn't going to name her baby and stuff, you and me can still totally use Pink Lady if we ever have a kid."

It takes a few seconds for her to understand and then process what he's said, but when she does, and for the second time that morning, she's accosted by something he's said so off-handedly and easily, like there's absolutely no filter between his brain and his mouth. She starts choking on her donut, coughing and wheezing in a most unattractive fashion, her eyes watering, her face going scarlet. "Rachel!" he yelps, panicked, rushing over to whack her on the back a few times. He's about to Heimlich her, she thinks, so she waves him off.

"I'm fine," she gasps, trying to swallow and cough at the same time. She coughs a few more times, clearing her throat, assuring him she's not actually dying. "Sorry," she finally says, hoarsely, when she's better. "Went down the wrong pipe."

"I could totally save you, if you really were in trouble," he says. Rachel stares at him, pretty sure that's the truest thing she's ever heard. "I took classes at the YMCA."

She nods, unable to think of anything to say at the moment, utterly dumbstruck. This boy is going to be the death of her, that's all she knows right now.

* * *

><p>It's actually their parents who are going to kill them, but she already knew that the moment she said yes to skipping school.<p>

It's raining harder than ever outside but inside, they're warm and dry, the lamp in the corner beating back the gloom with a warm yellow glow. They're next to each other on the couch, halfway through the first disk of season one of "30 Rock", the coffee and donuts almost gone. He laughs at something Alec Baldwin says and bumps her shoulder with his own, checking to see if she found that funny, too, but in truth, she's enjoying watching him more than she's enjoying the show. She smiles and he smiles back, leaning down. Her stomach flips, knowing he's going to kiss her again, ready for it, wanting it, her every nerve ending sparking. But when first his cell phone rings, followed five seconds later by her own, he stops, the sound of "Don't Stop Believing" clashing with her ringtone of "On My Own", breaking the moment.

She jumps off the couch, digging in her backpack for her phone as he reaches for his. "It's my mom," he says.

She pulls hers out, checking the screen. "One of my dads. The school must've called them."

"What do we say?"

"The truth is always the right answer," Rachel says succinctly, though quite terrified by the prospect.

"I haven't told my mom about the baby situation," he blurts, his phone still ringing.

"Finn!"

"I was gonna! I just hadn't decided when yet."

"She's going to find out, you know. This town is too small."

"Oh god. Oh god, oh god. I can't do it now, not like this!" His phone stops ringing, going to his voicemail. He stares at the phone, slumping back against the couch. "Crap."

Her own phone stops ringing. "Crap." She sits down next to him, nervously turning the phone over in her hands. "What do we say?"

"I don't know. All I know is I'm not going to school today. I just want to stay here with you."

She looks at him intensely, her body tingling at his words. "Tell her you're sick. Tell her you started throwing up on the way to school so you came home and went back to bed and forgot to call her." She can't believe she's telling him to lie to his mom. She really is a delinquent now. His knee is bouncing a mile a minute. She touches it, stilling it, continuing, "But you're going to have to tell her the truth tonight. About Quinn, I mean."

He nods slowly, looking at her hand on his knee. "Okay." He dials his mom's number, glancing at her as he waits for the connection. She knows the moment his mom picks up because she can hear the yelling start immediately. "I know, mom, I shoulda called, I know... I got sick. I was throwing up in the bushes and stuff... Yeah."

Rachel listens to him tell his mom a story, glad she isn't here to see her son's face, which is telling an entirely different story. But his mom seems to buy what he's saying – the yelling ceases and Finn starts breathing again. He heaves a sigh when he flips the phone shut. "She bought it."

Rachel nods, feeling guilty. "You promise you'll tell her everything tonight?"

"Yeah. Well... I might not mention the part about having another girl over here alone all day. She might not understand." Rachel ducks her head, blushing, not sure she understands either. "Are you gonna call your dad?"

She speed dials her dad at work and thinks quickly about what she's going to say. As soon as her dad answers, he, too, starts in with the yelling, but she interrupts, "I ditched school today, daddy." That shuts him up and earns a surprised look from Finn. "I'm at Finn's house." Finn sits up, alarmed. "We're just hanging out. He was having a hard morning with all the baby drama stuff."

Finn's jaw drops, panic and shock filling his eyes. He reaches like he's going to take the phone from her, but she holds him off with a firm hand planted to his chest.

"It's been really hard on him, and now with that story going out... Yeah, yeah exactly." Finn looks sick, so she strokes his chest a little, soothingly, willing him to trust her. "I know I'm in trouble but I am fully prepared to accept all the consequences and repercussions without complaint. He's my friend, daddy." Finn is staring at her. "My dearest, most wonderful friend. I had to be here for him..." He puts his hand over hers on his chest, clutching. She half-listens to her dad, her explanations falling on thankfully receptive ears. "I'll see you tonight, we'll talk more about it then. Thank you, daddy." Her eyes lock on Finn's when she says, "I love you." Can Finn read between the lines? Can he hear her? She thinks he might, a soft, yearning look filling his eyes and parting his lips.

She hangs up the phone, Finn still holding her hand to his chest. She can feel how warm his skin is under his clothes and that sends a shiver through her body. "You told your parents about the baby?" he asks, not accusingly but sort of amazed.

"I tell them everything. Well, I don't tell them about the times people threw slushies on me. But everything else."

"Oh. What else do you tell them about me?" he asks shyly.

Again, the urge to tell him she loves him, really tell him, is overwhelming. Why is it so hard? Because everything is so complicated. Because he's Finn Hudson and she's Rachel Berry and they're not meant to be, even if they are. The truth is always the right answer, however... "I tell them how I wish you could be mine," she says softly, looking at their hands.

And then his lips, so soft and full, are on her own, gentle at first, giving her a chance to back away. But she doesn't. She wraps her arms around his neck and kisses him back, still gentle, still tentative, giving him the same out he offered. He doesn't take it either. His hands are on her, pulling her against him, tilting his head to deepen the kiss. Oh god, he's a really good kisser, she realizes, and suddenly she has a moment of pure panic – she's never kissed him like this, never kissed _anyone_ like this – what if she doesn't know how to kiss like this, what if she does it wrong, what if he thinks she's lame because she's not good at it? It freezes her.

"Are you okay?" he asks, his mouth forming the words against her lips.

"I'm nervous," she admits.

"Don't be nervous, Rach. It's just me."

Well that's _exactly_ why she's so nervous! But she knows what he means – she can trust him. And she does. She leans into him again, showing him how she trusts him, letting him set the pace, his kisses deep and slow and searching. He tastes so sweet, traces of donut glaze still clinging to his lips. Without meaning to, she licks the sugar off with the tip of her tongue and he takes that as a sign, touching her tongue with his for the first time ever. A little sound escapes the back of her throat, the sensation at first odd and so intimate, but it soon sparks something powerful inside her - a warm buzzing between her legs, spreading upward into her belly, into her breasts. She presses her chest to his, almost climbing onto his lap, her fingers clutching the soft cotton of his t-shirt. Now she's the one setting the pace, speeding it up, greedy and eager.

"Rachel," he murmurs approvingly, one hand sliding down her back, reaching for her bottom, and she lets him, she wants him to. Her hips do something of their own accord when he squeezes gently and she thinks she's going to explode. She doesn't know what she's doing. She can't _believe_ what she's doing, what he's doing to her, what they're doing together. She _does_ know what they're doing is wrong. Cheating. Betraying their teammate, his girlfriend, her frenemy. And maybe he's just using her, taking comfort because she's putting it on a plate for him. This is so so wrong.

But she wants more. She wants him. She wants to show him how much she loves him since it seems too hard to say it. She wants to give him all of her, even if she shouldn't. She's still nervous, actually shaking, but she's not afraid. Breathless, she asks, "Can we...can we go to your room?"

* * *

><p>"<em>I need to know you, need to feel my arms around you..."<em>

It's messy and awkward and clumsy and rushed.

Finn's just as nervous as she is now – he fumbles with the nightstand drawer as he searches desperately for a condom, still trying to kiss her at the same time, not accomplishing either task with much skill. She's got one hand burrowed under his t-shirt, fingers clutching his back, another trying to untie her shorts and push them down with her underwear, and trying to keep covered with her sweatshirt, too, shy even as they do this. She hears the crinkle of the foil wrapper, feels him shifting around wildly, his knee pinching her thigh as he hurries to get his pants down and get the thing on, his mouth heavy on her neck, his breath fast and hot, his hands everywhere, one pushing up her shirt, grabbing her breast, rubbing it greedily as he positions himself between her legs, his other hand touching her secret area, making her gasp, making her accidentally bite his tongue when he rubs something hard and smooth and hot against her sensitive folds - his most private part seeking to enter hers, and suddenly he is, with a loud grunt he's inside and oh god it hurts, the sharpness, the pressure, and she yelps like an idiot, hardly understanding this thing moving inside in short jerks, not understanding the wetness she feels, embarrassed, and what if he thinks it's gross? does he think it's gross? She chances a look, finds his eyes screwed shut, his mouth open, concentrating, a soft "oh oh oh" escaping his throat as he pushes faster, his whole body jerking atop her, building something inside her, and it tingles, and now it almost feels good, really good, the beginning of something really really _good_, until he stops and groans, long and deep and loud, collapsing, panting, burying his face against her neck, placing soft kisses there, saying her name.

It's over already. Almost as soon as it started.

She blinks, waylaid, overwhelmed, trying to catch her breath.

That needy tingling is still there, an ache, but fading, unattended. She doesn't know what to do about it so she strokes his sweaty back, still feeling him inside of her. She uses this quiet moment to get used to it, relax around it, and take stock of what the hell just happened.

One. She just had sex.

Two. She's naked from the chest down, and so is he.

Three. She just had _sex_!

Four. His..._penis_ is _inside_ of her.

Five. She's not going to die a virgin now, yay!

Six. She just had _sex._ With _Finn __Hudson_.

Seven. It wasn't what she expected.

"Can we take all our clothes off?" she asks a few minutes later, after he's calmed down, after he's taken himself out of her.

So they remove the rest of their clothes, both blushing, and lay quietly, facing each other, looking and touching, gently kissing.

She likes his hands on her and the way he's staring at her. She likes when he murmurs, "You're so hot, Rachel," because she believes him. She likes his chest, how broad and hard it is, and she likes his butt, rubbing her palm over it, smooth and round, firm. She likes the sound her skin makes sliding over it and the sounds he makes while she does it. She likes how pale he is compared to her. She likes how he looks at her chest, likes how his big hand feels on her little boob, gentle now, rubbing his thumb over her nipple, cupping. She always worried about her small breasts, wishing them bigger, but he doesn't seem to mind, given the careful attention he pays to them. She finally dares to look lower, trailing her eyes down to his cock. She stares at it like he's staring at her chest - fascinated, intrigued, wide-eyed. It's...bumpier than she thought it was. Well, not _bumpy_, but textured, ridged, hair surrounding it, with a funny little cap at the end, and _so_ _not_ like a hotdog, despite the rumors she heard in sixth grade. And despite living with two fathers and having the basics of a sexual education from a set of Time-Life books her dads made her read, Finn is the first man she's ever seen fully naked. And he looks nothing like the drawings in those books.

That buzzing starts between her legs again, and she's about to shift closer to him, but his voice brings her attention back to his darling face.

"I know that wasn't, like...good," he says with regret, stroking her hair, toying with a silky strand.

"I'm not much of a judge," she says honestly.

"But I mean, I know I was too fast, I just..." He touches her face. "I just couldn't control myself, you're just so...you're so..._rad_."

Rachel has to smile at that, warmed to the very core. _Rad_, he says. Her lovely, sweet boy, with the _words_ and the _trying_. "You're rad, too."

"And-and you're beautiful and smart and hot and talented and you're-you're just _magic_, Rachel. You're perfect."

"I'm not," she argues, thinking for a moment of the outside world they're ignoring right now.

"To me, you are." He takes a shaky breath. "And I am, you know."

She laughs at that. Bold statement! "Well I've always thought so!"

He stares, then realizes what he just said. "Oh, no no, I didn't mean..." He starts laughing too. "I didn't mean that! That totally came out wrong. I meant... Remember what you said before, when you said how-how you wished I could be yours?"

She stops laughing. "Yes?"

"I _am_ yours."

Tears spring to her eyes and she gives him a watery smile, kissing him so she won't start sobbing.

He's not. Not hers. Not _wholly._ He's not going to ditch Quinn, and Rachel wouldn't be in love with him if he _did_, if he were the kind of guy who'd ditch his pregnant baby momma like a dirty old sock. She loves him because he's better than that, and so, yeah, he's not wholly hers, and though she wants to tell him _so__badly_ how very much she loves him, how can she?

She just..._can__'__t_.

She can't say it.

Not until the day he really _is_ all hers, hers and no one else's. Maybe that will happen. Maybe it won't. But for now, hoping it's good enough, she says, "I'm yours, too, Finn."

They cling to each other, their hands seeking, their mouths seeking, their bodies seeking – she can feel his awakening again and hers sure as hell is. She feels herself opening, ready. This – _this_ is what she expected. This feels like the start of that really really _good_ something. He reaches for his nightstand drawer again, slipping a leg between hers and about to roll on top of her, but she stops him, holding him back, asking, "Can I be on top?"

* * *

><p>"<em>each night and day I pray, in hope that I might find you..."<em>

She can't sleep that night. Her bed feels too big for some reason. And she can't stop thinking about him, about his adorable butt, about what they did that day, about how she found out well what that really really _good_ thing was, about what will happen when they're back in school tomorrow, about whether today was just stolen from her daydreams or something _real_, about all the consequences and repercussions to come and about how her fathers decided to give her the "sex talk" earlier that evening, over dinner. A little too late, dads! She didn't tell them that, though – they don't need to know _everything_.

She sighs, tentatively touching herself under her covers – she swears she can still feel him. She closes his eyes and pretends he's there, pretends he's got his hand on her-

"On My Own" suddenly fills the silent room, _way_ too loudly, interrupting her activity. Her phone. She flings herself out of bed and grabs it off the vanity table. Her heart jumps a mile when she sees who it is.

"Finn?" she answers.

"I miss you," he says suddenly, no preamble.

"I miss you," she says, emotional.

He's quiet for a while and she checks to make sure the call didn't drop. She thinks she can hear something from his end – she listens, straining, and realizes he's crying. Her chest squeezes and she clutches her pajama top, scared. "Finn, what's the matter? Did someone die?" she yelps, panicked. He doesn't respond, just seems to be crying harder, and she knows freaking out won't help. She pictures him in his room, sitting on his bed, upset and alone, and so wishes she could be there with him, comfort him, hold him. Her voice is soft and small when she asks, "What is it? What's wrong, baby bear?"

She's never called anyone by a pet name before. Not even a pet. It sounds kinda weird coming out of her mouth but she thinks she could get used to it.

He sucks in a wet, shaky breath. "I did what you said. I talked to my mom tonight. About Quinn, the baby, all that... We talked for hours. She asked me, like, a million questions. And she...she explained a lot of things to me."

He falls quiet again, so she prompts, "Like what?"

"Things I should've known!" he shouts suddenly, making her jump. "I'm sorry. Sorry," he says instantly. His voice is so choked. It hurts to listen. "Rachel... Can I come over? I have to see you."

It's one in the morning, and it's late October, freezing outside and still drizzling. "I'll be waiting for you out front."

"I have so much to tell you," he says.

"Okay," she replies, holding onto her calm as best she can. She needs to stay strong, no matter what it is he has to tell her. "I'll see you soon. I love you," she says, not even thinking about it.

Well.

That wasn't so hard.

"I love you, too, Rach," he answers without hesitation, and he's gone, the call ended.

She stands there, frozen, amazed, the silent phone still pressed to her ear, catching her dim reflection in the mirror. Is that her? Is that the same girl who woke up this morning?

Not really, no.

She puts the phone down and turns on the lamp, smiling at her reflection as she starts to get dressed.


	2. All Through the Night

"_**I'll be awake and I'll be with you..."**_

He may be the only boy in Ohio who drives like an eighty-year-old woman. He gets honked at a lot, especially on the freeway. But he doesn't care. Driving is scary. He's glad Mr. Henry, the mailman, is doing well. And didn't press charges. But he has a hard time keeping the speedometer at twenty tonight – he feels like he wants to speed as fast as he can to Rachel's house. He feels like all his cells are flying apart, like he's going to explode if he doesn't see her _right__ now_. He eases the accelerator down a touch and chances going twenty-eight on the empty, dark roads.

He remembers driving her home after their date at the bowling alley. Yes, it really was a date, wasn't it? Their first date. It should've been totally awesome but he ruined it all because he was lying to her, manipulating her, even though he really _did_ want to be with her – the truth and the lies-by-omission got so mixed up in his head, he didn't know _what_ he was doing. He was a bundle of nerves, even more so pulling up to her house to drop her off because he knew he wanted to kiss her again but didn't think it was right.

She solved that problem for him, leaning over the center console to kiss him quickly on the mouth before leaping out of the car and running to her house, giving him a little wave and a big smile as she went inside, leaving him stunned and more confused than ever and longing for her more than ever, wishing more than ever that things were different.

He's a bundle of nerves now, too, but for so many different reasons.

There – that's her house up there. And he can see her! She's standing on the porch waiting for him! Now she's running down the lawn toward his car. He wants to run to her but she's done it already, yanking open the passenger door and jumping in as soon as he's come to a stop. Who but Rachel Berry would ever run to him? Would Quinn have ever agreed to get up in the middle of the night and meet him like this? No. No, because she's a lying, selfish, cheating, terrible-

He grabs her, pulls down her raincoat hood so he can bury his hands in her soft hair as he kisses her greedily, like he hasn't seen her in a month. Her lips are cold, her skin is cold and damp, but he does his best to warm her up, kissing her all over her face, holding her as close as he can. It's not enough - he wishes his mom's car had bench seats up front.

"Rachel, I need you," he tells her, his throat feeling tight with tears.

"I'm here, Finn." He moves his hand, finding the zipper on her jacket, pulling it down, easing his hand inside. She whimpers a little, so softly, but touches his face, leaning back. "Finn... Finn, wait. Let's-let's go somewhere else."

Good idea. She's so smart.

* * *

><p>"<em><strong>this precious time when time is new..."<strong>_

He drives like a bat out of hell, pushing thirty-five but feeling like his body is moving twice as fast, as she instructs him with turn-by-turn instructions to a dark, secluded road running between a wooded area and the Oak Lawns Golf Course where he used to caddy when he was fourteen. He holds her hand the whole way.

He turns the car off but leaves the stereo on, low. They sit in the dark for a moment, holding hands, looking at each other in the thin light from the sole streetlight down the way, his stomach fluttering, his skin buzzing like a hive of bees. She absently sings along to the song on the radio, softly, "All through the night to day, knowing that we feel the same without saying."

And in the space of a breath, they're kissing, they're touching, he's taking off her pink raincoat, she's pushing off his gray hoodie, the center console is driving him mad, she's still so far away and so they're climbing between the seats to get to the back, their hands everywhere, his fingers nervous and shaky on her fastenings, their lips fighting to stay together as they work to get each other's clothes off in the small space and it reminds him of their first time earlier that day, a lifetime ago, on his narrow bed, the same outrageous urgency, the same eager nervousness, the same awkward fumbling with the rubber.

He's still going crazy the way he was then, he's still not nearly close enough to her, his body and his mind flying all over the place until finally, _finally_, they're both naked and pressed together, she's there upon him, sitting down on his lap, straddling his hips, and he's inside, burying himself inside her, the most wonderful secret world he could ever imagine, burying his face against her breast, burying his fingers in her hair, and only then do all his atoms and molecules and cells come back together again and he feels whole, feels grounded and calm, oddly calm for a teenage boy in the midst of a sexual act, and it's not like that first time at all because it feels so peaceful and easy and he suddenly understands _everything_, everything makes _sense_, and it feels like he's home - she feels like home.

She is his home.

* * *

><p>"<em><strong>once we start, the meter clicks and it goes running all thru the night..."<strong>_

He lays his hoodie over top of her as best he can, trying to keep the chill off her teeny tiny (but rockin') body. _She_ is his blanket, her skin warm and soft on his as she snuggles on top of him, tucking her head under his chin, so he's good.

He's very good.

He's really really really good right now.

He can't stop grinning.

"So what did you want to tell me about your talk with your mom?" she says.

He stops grinning. Oh yeah. That. He actually forgot about all _that_ for a while. He wishes he could forget _that_ forever. It makes him angry and hurts like hell, like he's being kicked in the kidneys.

She lifts her head up to look at him. Her eyes are huge and like shining crystals, even in the darkness here. "You can tell me anything, you know," she says in a small voice. She's scared of what he might say, he knows it. But she'll listen anyway because she wants to hear what he has to say, because she's Rachel Berry, because she's _awesome_, and because she said "I love you" like she's been saying it to him for years.

"I love you," he says. He likes the way she smiles when he says it. It reminds him of the way she smiles at him when they sing together.

"I love you, too." He knows he could get lost in that smile. He wants to. But instead he strokes her hair and gently presses her head back down onto his chest. If she's looking at him, he'll just stay lost in that moment and never say what he needs to tell her. He keeps stroking her hair as he opens his mouth and starts to talk.

Starts and just can't stop.

"Quinn's baby isn't mine, I couldn't have gotten her pregnant because we never had sex, not the way you and me have sex, I mean we never had _any_ kind of sex, me and Quinn, I didn't mean we had oral or anything like that, that's not what I meant, not butt sex either because that's weird and-and, yeah, and so you can't get pregnant in a hot tub like how Quinn said it happened, that's what my mom explained to me and I'm such an _idiot_ for believing her, Quinn I mean, I believe my mom because she's smart and old and my mom and stuff and she was all frowny and shaking her head like that time I washed her car with steel wool when I was nine so I know she thinks I'm an idiot even though she didn't say it and I just wish I'd googled all of this months ago but I _believed_ her, I trusted her, you know? and if it's not my baby, whose is it then? why did she say it was mine, why would she do that, why would she cheat on me, why did she lie to me, what'd I ever do to her that she'd _play_ me like that?" He gasps for breath, shaking, wild-eyed but not seeing anything. She doesn't say anything but reaches up, takes his hand, the one that was touching her hair. He realizes how hard he was just stroking it and freezes, terrified. "Oh god sorry, I'm sorry! Did I hurt you?"

"No, baby bear," she says gently, kissing his fingers, holding his hand close, tucking it under her chin.

"Sorry," he says again. "I just...I'm just so..."

She sits up a little now, scooting up so she can look him straight in the eyes, hovering over him, her hair falling around her face. He reaches up and gently, so carefully, tucks it behind her ear. "Finn," she starts in a serious voice, her I'm-Rachel-Berry-and-this-is-the-truth-dammit voice, "you didn't do anything wrong. You didn't do anything to deserve what Quinn did. It's not your fault."

"But I should've known better."

She doesn't say anything about that, instead saying, "I'm glad you spoke to your mom about all this. As lame as parents are, sometimes they come in handy. They're not always wrong about everything." She grins as she adds, "Just most things."

That's one of the hundred reasons why he loves Rachel Berry – because she never calls him a moron or stupid or puts him down because he doesn't catch on as fast as other people. He knows he can be a total idiot sometimes and he knows he can't dance and he knows he drives like an old lady but she just accepts him and always knows what to say to make him feel better. She makes him feel like a better man.

But... But he's still not good enough.

"I know I don't deserve you," he says aloud. It catches her by surprise and she opens her mouth to protest but he goes on. "I know your dreams are bigger than me-"

"Finn, I didn't-"

"I'm not good enough for you, Rachel. But I want to be. I will be. I'm going to be. I promise."

Her surprised face suddenly crumples up and she starts crying. Oh shit, he didn't mean to make her cry! Oh shit, oh shit! He's about to apologize but her lips are crashing down onto his, stealing his words, claiming his tongue. Her hand is leading his down to her bottom, making him grab her there the way he knows she likes. For a second, he's still, doesn't know what to do - are those _happy_ tears or _sad_ tears? Why is she still crying? He will never understand women, like, _ever__ ever__ ever_.

But then her hips shift over his, rubbing in a slow circle, and he knows exactly what to do.

* * *

><p>"<em><strong>keep with me forward all through the night..."<strong>_

Sex makes him hungry, he's learned with great joy. Playing video games makes him hungry, too. So does watching TV and singing and dancing and suicide drills and eating and thinking about stuff and thinking about sex and driving. But having sex makes him _particularly_ hungry; he could eat a whole pancake house right now. She starts giggling when his stomach starts growling like, well, like a bear. Now he thinks he understands why she calls him that nickname.

He's got to think of a good one for her, too. Something as cute and sweet as she is. A berry name? Strawberry? She's not really _red_ though. Blueberry? Cute and sweet and a little tart. And blue. Which means sad, too. Blueberry Pancake? Those are sweet and not sad and warm and taste delicious with syrup on top (and so would she) and would be really good right now with a side of bacon. And two eggs sunny side up.

"There's an all-night Big Boy just up I-75, near Beaverdam," he tells her eagerly. It's three a.m. but he's not sleepy at all. "Wanna go?"

* * *

><p>"<em><strong>we have no past, we won't reach back..."<strong>_

He takes her hand as they walk across the parking lot toward the bright, warmly lit, inviting Big Boy. It's like a lighthouse, surrounded by a sea of dark, empty farmland and freeway. He can see a few people inside, truckers it looks like.

"You know, I thought about being a truck driver. When I um...when I thought I was gonna have to support Quinn and everything," he says, trying to swallow down the sharpness that rises in his throat. Her hand tightens around his.

"Finn?" He looks down at her. Her face is very serious. "You'd make a terrible trucker."

He grins. "I know, right? If I were hauling food, it'd all be rotten by the time I got where I was going."

"But you don't have to be a trucker. You can be anything you _want_ to be now," she says brightly, leading him through the front door, a bounce in her step.

"You think so?"

"I know so," she says with confidence.

A spread of warmth fills his chest as he follows her to a table and sits down across from her. He stares at her, wide-eyed, smiling, amazed as always. He believes her, what she said. He believed what Quinn used to say, too, but...but he never _loved_ Quinn, he knows, and he knows Quinn never loved him, never believed in him, not the way Rachel does. And that makes all the difference.

Rachel doesn't know how to do anything less than all the way. When she sings, she's giving it every ounce of her heart and her body and her soul. When she stands up for something or someone, usually _him_, she does it with every cell in her body and every word in her vocabulary. She holds his hands on top of the table, smiling at him, and he knows that she _loves_ the same way she does everything else – completely, thoroughly, astoundingly, powerfully.

"So what do you want to be now?" she asks.

"I want to be..." He has no idea what he wants to be, job-wise. _No __idea._ Though, fireman might be pretty rad. But he knows other things he wants to be. "I want to be your best friend and I want to be wherever you are, all the time. I want to be with you forever. What do you want to be?"

Her eyes are giant and her mouth is hanging open a little. "I-I-I-"

"You kids know what you want?" a voice interrupts.

He looks up at the waitress hovering by their table and says immediately, "Blueberry pancakes with maple syrup, a side of bacon, and two eggs, sunny side up, please. And coffee. You want coffee?" Rachel still looks stunned, speechless, but nods slowly. "Two coffees. With lots of cream and sugar. You want something to eat, honey bear?"

Her eyes get even bigger but she fires off, not missing a beat, "The fruit plate without the cottage cheese and with whole wheat toast, no butter, please."

"I'll be right back with your coffee," their waitress says, and he catches the way she looks at them as she goes, a knowing glint in her eye. He feels his face get hot. They may as well have 'We've been boning all night in the backseat of a car' stamped on their foreheads.

He's nervous at being caught out by the waitress, nervous because Rachel is still staring at him in that way she gets when he says really dorky things to her. Like earlier in the day, when he said they could name their own baby Pink Lady. And gosh she looks so pretty right now. Her hair is all messy and she's-she's, what's the word... _Glowing_. She glows.

And he's a wrack of nerves.

"See what I did there? 'Honey bear'? Because you call me baby bear, so it's like that, but you're sweet like honey and your skin is like honey and your voice is like honey and you're also kind of a bear sometimes, like a mama bear, but I didn't want to you call you 'mama' because that would be weird."

Holy shit, what are these words coming out of his mouth? He's just dorking it up even more!

"And-and 'bear' is like 'Berry', I just realized! Bear-Berry, Berry-bear. Ha, I didn't even think of that before I said it." Like always, _dorkus_. "But if you don't want me to call you that, I can- Hey, where ya going?"

He's scared her off - she's sliding out of their booth. But then she slides in next to him and puts her arms around him, kissing him. He smiles and asks, "Is that how you're always gonna get me to shut up?"

She bats her long lashes and her dark eyes at him winningly. "Yes."

"I have no problem with that." He leans in to kiss her again but the waitress is back, clearing her throat, setting coffee in front of them. They look up sheepishly, pulling apart a tiny bit.

"Thanks," Rachel says politely.

But the waitress doesn't go away. "Aren't you kids a little young to be out so late?" the lady asks.

"Oh no, ma'am, we're eighteen," Rachel says automatically, smiling reassuringly.

"Oh yeah?"

He swallows, suddenly imagining cops rolling up and taking them away. For being young and out late. But his Rachel is unfazed. "We're driving across country, you see. We're from Boise, Idaho, and we're heading to New York. We can't really afford motels so we're just driving straight through."

"Really. What's in New York, then?" she asks skeptically.

"Broadway," he blurts. Rachel turns to look at him, the tiniest smile of surprise twitching at her lips. "We sing and dance and act, so we're going to audition for Broadway shows and stuff."

Rachel's smile softens. "We're going to be stars."

"Totally."

"And live on Park Avenue. And have lots of fans wanting our picture and autograph."

"But right now we don't have any money so we're gonna have to find a cheap apartment and take the subway and get jobs."

"We'll work nights in one of those cabaret cafes, where we sing songs in between serving meals. And we'll find a little studio with a fire escape balcony. In the summer we'll sit out there and listen to the city and run lines and listen to music and sing and we'll have a cat, a stray who adopts us."

"And sometimes late at night after work, we'll go down to Times Square and walk around eating hotdogs-"

"Tofu hotdogs," she interjects.

"And we'll look at all the big theaters and talk about the day when our names will be on the posters."

"And then we'll both get cast in 'We Will Rock You' as leads for the touring production, so we'll have to pack up our little flat but we'll ask the nice old lady downstairs to take care of the cat while we're gone."

"And we'll go all over the world together for the show and save up our money so when we come back to New York, we can get a slightly bigger place. And a dog. And an engagement ring."

She gasps. "Really?"

"A big diamond one."

Her smile goes all wobbly and she blinks a lot. "Oh!"

"But we have to come back home to get married so our families and friends can be there."

"Of course. And so we can tell them the big news."

"You're pregnant?"

"Better. We just got cast in the big budget remake of 'Saturday Night Fever.'"

"Seriously?"

"Yep. You're being hailed as the next John Travolta. But without the Scientology."

"Wow, cool!" He smiles brightly at her, matching the smile she's giving him. The future's gonna be so _rad_. But then something occurs to him, something real, something serious. "But...if I don't make it..."

"Don't make it?" She looks confused. "What are you talking about?"

"On Broadway, I mean. I mean, _you_ will, obviously. But if I don't, I'll go to fireman school and become a fireman for the FDNY."

She frowns briefly, biting her lip. "That's a pretty dangerous job, baby bear."

"But I get to wear a cool uniform."

Her eyes light up and he sees something wicked in them. "Good point." She reaches up and strokes his cheek, saying earnestly, "You'd be a great fireman, Finn. Running into the flames, saving lives, being a hero." Her touch is the only thing in the world. "You're already my hero."

Her words fill him up better than any pancakes ever could. "I am?"

She nods. "And you're already my best friend."

His heart swells. "I am?"

"The best friend I've ever had. And I want to be right by your side forever, no matter what."

He draws her in close, hugging her tight, burying his face in her hair, moved beyond his ability to speak. To say it's been an emotional thirty-six hours would be an understatement; to say he's highly emotional right now doesn't even come close to describing the rush of everything swirling through him. His emotions usually confuse him and pull him in ten different directions and leave him washed ashore, lost and alone.

He's not lost now. And he's not alone.

He turns his head to kiss her, murmuring his favorite pet name for her, "Rachel..."

"Here you are, kids," says the waitress with the worst timing in the world, setting their plates down in front of them. He groans a little and they pull apart reluctantly. But-but wait, hadn't she been there the whole time, listening to their fantastic tale? "I had orders up – what were you saying is in New York?"

He rolls his eyes a little and gives his girlfriend a lopsided grin. She smiles, a secret smile only he can understand, as she answers sincerely, "Our dreams."

* * *

><p>"<em><strong>the sleep in your eyes is enough, let me be there, let me stay there awhile..."<strong>_

The sky above the stretch of empty cornfield is slowly turning gray and blue and purple, pale and washed out but clear, the clouds and rain from yesterday gone. They'll have to go soon, he knows; he'll have to get back on the I-75 and take her home, then drive back to his own house so his mom can take the car to work. Then he'll have to get ready for school, just like he's done every day for years and years. Just another day at school. Except it's not.

Everything's different now. Everything is new.

His stomach drops at the thought of going back, just like it did yesterday, so long ago, when he was walking to school alone and thinking of what he'd face there, what he'd find. And then everything changed. Rachel found him. And then they found each other.

He knows what he'll find at school today and it won't be easy or simple; it'll be messy and ugly and hurtful. It would be easier to ignore Quinn, pretend she doesn't exist, never talk to her again, ignore the issue at hand and call her a bitch behind her back. But a good man, the man he's going to be, doesn't do that; a good man faces the hard things and deals with the consequences, accepts the repercussions. Tries to forgive. He knows he can get through it because Rachel will be with him, right by his side - she said she would be and he knows he can believe everything she tells him.

They have to go soon but she's peacefully asleep in his arms and he doesn't want to wake her. It's cold in the car but they're warm under a wool blanket he found in the trunk. It kind of smells like tires and cheap carpeting but it's better than huddling under his hoodie. He'll make sure he has a soft, clean blanket for next time.

"We should go soon," she murmurs sleepily. Ah, she's awake now. He hopes he didn't wake her with all his heavy thinking.

"Yeah, I guess so." Neither of them move. He can feel her eyelashes flutter against his neck.

"I don't want to."

"I don't either," he grumbles.

She lifts her head so she can look at him and bites her lip thoughtfully. "I wish we could go to New York instead, baby bear."

He likes that. "Yeah, totally. Just take off right now."

Her eyes light up. "Right now. Like Bonnie and Clyde but without the crime. Just..._go_."

It hangs in the air, the idea. He can almost feel it and see its shape. The temptation to just _go _is so strong. Go - on their own. Go - start living their dream. Go – together because what else matters? The bright spark in her eyes tells him she can see it, too, and wants it just as much as he does. A mad, brilliant, beautiful, insane, wild idea.

He smiles at her. "Come on, let's go, honey bear."

* * *

><p>"<em><strong>until it ends, there is no end..."<strong>_

He walks her to her front door. He half-expects the door to swing open and a baseball bat to come flying at his head, the two Mr. Berrys out for his blood for stealing their daughter away in the middle of the night. But the porchlight is still on so she theorizes that her dads aren't even up yet.

"Good thing," he says softly, keeping quiet in the early, still dawn. He thinks about something she told him yesterday and asks, "Are you gonna tell them about this?"

"No, I don't think so. I like you a lot and want to keep you around awhile, so would prefer not to see you killed."

He's relieved. He doesn't want to be killed, either. He wants to be around for a good long while, too. He leans down and kisses her, just once, tenderly - any more and he knows he'll end up dragging her back to the car. Her eyes stay closed for a moment, like she's savoring his kiss. He savors the sight of it.

"I'll be back at seven-thirty," he tells her, "so we can walk to school together."

"Because that worked so well yesterday," she says wryly, grinning, saucy.

"Don't tempt me," he warns, reaching for her.

She gives him a little shove, pushing him away. "Go on, I'll see you later." He slowly backs down the porch steps, his eyes glued to her beauty at this moment, with the first rays of morning light kissing the side of her face, turning her skin to gold and her eyes to amber and her lips to roses.

"Finn?"

"Yeah, angel?"

"Everything's going to be alright, you know," she promises.

"I know."


	3. The Start of Forever

"_**our time is waiting in the wings of uncertainty..."**_

"What time is your audition today?"

"Eleven.

"Is it the..."

"Cat food commercial, yeah." Serenading a cat to entice it to eat the company's brand of tuna flavored treats, to be exact.

"I know you'll get it!" She says that every time. "Cats love you."

That's true – there's one sleeping on his chest right now. He has half a tail and a scar where an eye used to be.

"You should come with me to my 'Show Boat' audition today, it's at three," she says, scooting closer under the blanket so she can pet the cat, making him purr and stretch.

In fact, today is her first audition for a _major_ Broadway show. Not Off-Broadway, not Off-Off-Off-Off Broadway, not a singing telegram gig or a cheesy commercial, but The Broad Way. She's been practicing for three weeks straight – he knows every "Show Boat" song by heart now and he'll never get "Can't Help Loving That Man" out of his head. He even caught himself singing it on the subway yesterday, to the delight of a very very tall "lady" wearing very very large high heels. "But I thought they had all the guy roles cast," he replies, frowning.

"Well, yes, but..."

"I dunno, Rach," he demurs. "I should probably swing by the restaurant, try to pick up a few more hours' work. Rent's due next Friday."

It was her force of will, her tunnel vision, her bone-deep certainty that got them here, he knows. Left to his own devices, would he have ever actually _done_ it – moved to New York right after high school, tried to break into the Broadway world? He thinks not. If not for Rachel, he'd very likely still be in Lima, flunking out of community college, holding down some random, futureless job. In fact, he'd probably also be wasting away in a lifeless marriage of obligation, saddled with a toddler, living with "his family" in his mom's basement. If not for Rachel, he'd be the quintessential Lima Loser.

If not for Rachel.

"But if, say, we just _happen_ to be rehearsing 'Make Believe' together where the director will _happen_ to be having his daily three o'clock cigar on the fire escape above the alley behind the theater, he might _happen_ to hear how amazing you are and change his mind about his male casting selections."

He grins. _Of __course_ she knows the director has a daily cigar break – why _wouldn__'__t_ she know that?

She was always going to get here, he knows. And she would've done it with or without him. He's eternally glad it was "with" though. He sometimes wishes he had the balls to have done it on his own, but only sometimes because he knows she's his strength and his soul and his guiding light, his bright star, his biggest fan.

She props herself up so she can look at him directly, the blanket slipping down to her waist, her hair falling over her naked breasts, the soft ends brushing against his chest. He expects to see that bright gleam in her eyes, the one she gets when she envisions her dreams and schemes coming to life. But instead he sees something else - fear. The nerves she lets only him see, _him_ and no one else, not the casting people, producers, agents, directors, other performers, audiences, not even her dads. "Will you come with me?" she asks, her voice small and soft, her brown eyes huge and liquid.

He smiles at her and touches her face. She presses her cheek into his palm. "Of course, honey bear." She beams, radiant and relieved, and falls upon him, kissing him, displacing the sullen cat as she slides her body on top of his.

It's okay that he's leaned on her to get here because she leans on him, too.

* * *

><p>"I can't do this anymore," he says as he comes through the door, dropping his duffle bag on the floor.<p>

Rachel looks up from her script – some experimental piece involving a lot of black lights, a warehouse in Queens, and video projection of a dog giving birth. He doesn't get it, like, _at __all_, but it's an Equity gig so that's good. For her.

"What happened?" She's still mad, he can tell. No one else might see it, but he can read it clear as day – the way she doesn't put down her script but is still half-reading it, the flat tone of her voice. They've been fighting a little, bickering usually but sometimes more than that, over stupid stuff. The milk, the thermostat settings, the recycling – stuff they never used to give a second's thought about. This morning was the worst – they started yelling at each other about what he should wear to an audition for a frickin' Rogaine commercial. Rogaine! He's twenty-three, he doesn't even _need_ Rogaine.

"That's not the point!" she'd shouted, waving a sweater vest in his face. "You need to dress like someone who _does_ need Rogaine!"

"I hate that stupid vest!" he yelled back, pulling it out of her hand.

"My father bought you that for Christmas!"

"He re-gifted it, Rachel!"

The look on her face – like he'd just slapped her.

He'd blown the audition – the producer said she'd never before seen anyone so angry about hair loss. And to add some extra fun to the day, he'd had to go to his paying gig for the week – birthday party clown. For a fifteen-year-old's party. What kind of horrible parent hires a _clown_ for a teenager's birthday party?

It didn't go well.

He had a long ride home on the subway to think about why they've been fighting so much, to think about the last five years of their life together in New York, to think about what the next five years might be like. To think about a lot of things.

"Nothing, like, specific happened," he replies, flopping down in the comfy chair. He watches her as she frowns and makes a note in the script. She's so smart – to him, that crazy theater piece may as well be written in Chinese, but she loves it, she's passionate about it, she's committed to it. She's a hundred percent about it, and for the millionth time he envies that about her.

"It's time, Rachel," he says seriously.

Her eyes snap up, hearing the tone of his voice. She puts the script down. "Time for what?"

"Time for me to move on."

Her lip wobbles.

* * *

><p>"<em><strong>to the start of forever, it's the start..."<strong>_

"See, these go on first, under the gloves." Rachel nods seriously, touching the white fabric. "They're wool, which is naturally flame-retardant."

"Doesn't that get very hot?" she asks Capt. McManus. "There's a risk of heat-stroke, isn't there?"

"That's why we train the hardest in the summer," the Cap responds. "So the men get acclimated."

She nods slowly, glancing across the way, catching his eye. He smiles and gives her a little thumbs-up, trying to reassure her. She shoots a smile back, but he can tell she's still not convinced.

Maybe if she sees the jaws of life. The jaws of life are _rad_.

Suddenly, a heavy hand claps down on his shoulder – Rodriguez, one of the senior men in the company. One of the less haze-happy, too. "This is your day off, rookie," he says. "Can't keep away?"

"I brought my girlfriend Rachel," he answers, gesturing to where the Cap is now showing her one of their fire coats, putting the huge, heavy thing on her tiny frame. He smiles – she looks about twelve years old wearing that. Adorable.

"Ah, the famous _Rachel __Berry_, currently playing Liesl in 'The Sound of Music' at the Lyceum Theater."

He may have mentioned her a time or two around the station. "She's amazing!" he beams proudly.

"So I've heard."

"It's her first starring role on Broadway and she's the best one in the show. _And_ she's understudy for Maria now." He'd never admit out loud, but every day he hopes the lady currently playing Maria gets hit by a taxi. Just injured though, not killed. Maybe put into a coma for a while, but that's it.

"Me and the Mrs. have tickets for next Thursday."

"Awesome! You'll love it. I've seen it fifteen times."

Rodriguez smiles, shaking his head. "She here signing autographs?"

"She wanted to see everything to make sure it's safe and in proper working order." Roddy gives him a look - is he trying not to laugh? He shrugs at the older man. "She worries about me."

"The only unsafe thing here is the food," he comments.

"That's what I told her!" They watch as the Cap puts a helmet on her head. It makes her laugh – a good sign.

"You should marry her as soon as possible, Hud." His cheeks start to burn but before he can answer, Rodriguez adds, "Oh, um, by the way, don't show her your locker."

"Huh? Why not?" His locker's the coolest part! It has his name on it and everything.

"Because we filled it with gay porn this morning," Rodriguez tells him, walking away.

* * *

><p>His knee is bouncing like a rubber ball but his mind is focused, sharp, running down an ordered checklist. The truck rounds a corner and suddenly he can smell it – smoke; burning wood like at camp; burning plastic, acrid and sharp; melting metal like pennies in his mouth. Under the wail of the siren he can hear the crackling, the blistering.<p>

He knows what to do.

He knows how to do it.

"You ready, Hud?" Rodriguez shouts at him.

He's ready.

* * *

><p>It's five a.m. when he gets home, tired to the core but still thrumming with adrenaline and a little bit of celebratory scotch – his first real fire and he saved a <em>life<em>! A woman trapped in her top floor apartment. In the moment, he didn't even think about it, just _did _it, did what had to be done. But apparently, it was a bit of a big deal – there were news people at the station and his fellow firefighters were giving him a hard time, "rookie's luck" and all that, but he could tell they were proud of him.

The lamp by the couch is on, Captain Hook sitting on the arm rest, licking his paws and cleaning his scarred face meticulously. "Morning, Cap'n."

"Finn?"

"Whoa." The cat just talked to him! Maybe he had more scotch than he thought. But then he realizes there's a body under the afghan spread across the couch cushions. "Rach?"

Rachel's dark head emerges, her hair messy and sexy. She blinks and smiles languidly. "Hey, baby."

"Why aren't you in bed?" he asks, dropping his duffle bag, taking off his jacket and shoes. "It's cold out here."

"I saw the news," she says, her grin just as sexy as her hair.

He grins back. "Oh yeah?"

"Yeah." He stops dead, one shoe still hanging off his foot, when she flings back the afghan and gets up, revealing herself. Clad only in the tight little pink FDNY t-shirt he bought her and a tiny pair of white panties, her skin flushed to a golden hue, her hair and her smile, her glowing eyes... His blood surges, his heart speeds, his stomach flips. "I tried to stay up so I could congratulate you."

He trips over his shoe and stumbles forward, taking her in his arms, lifting her up, flooded with emotion. "Rachel, I love you so much..." He's crying now and he doesn't even know why.

"You're a hero, Finn," she murmurs, kissing his cheek and his eyes, kissing his tears, her legs wrapping around his hips. "I always knew you would be because you always _have_ been."

"I was just doing my job," he says softly, honestly, nuzzling her neck.

"But it's more than just a job," she answers, seeing right through to the center of his heart. He nods, his eyes welling up again, and he suddenly, finally, understands what it's like to be Rachel Berry – _passionate_, _committed_, _a __hundred-percent_ about his career. No, it's not just a job, like being a party clown was just a job, like going on auditions day after day seemed to be his job for a while. No, it's his calling.

But then he realizes he's always been _passionate_, _committed_, _a __hundred-percent_. About _her_.

"Rachel?"

She wipes away his tears. "Mmhmm?"

"Marry me?"

* * *

><p>"<em><strong>that's a long time, such a long time, to be waiting in the sun..."<strong>_

She likes to try different things sometimes. Toys. Restraints. Costumes, oh how she _loves_ costumes. Food – a particular pleasure. She really likes trying different positions, too. Some are hard for him because he doesn't do the yoga like she does, so it takes some practice to get it right, so he doesn't hurt himself. He eventually started wondering where she learned all these things. Maybe it's a weird kind of yoga they practice. It worried him. Then he found a stash of Cosmo magazines in a big shoebox under the bed when he dropped his phone and accidentally kicked it under there. He spent an hour and a half reading back issues until his head started to hurt from perfume inserts. Mystery of her sexual technique education solved. Well, _that_ mystery solved – a thousand others of the female psyche opened up by the pages of that publication. Talk about head-spinning. He put the magazines back the way he found them and never mentioned them to her.

Sometimes a wife needs her secrets, he figures. And god knows he enjoys the creative fruits of her secret studies. Like, _a __lot_.

But in truth he prefers times like just this – making slow, simple, thorough, indulgent love to her on a late Sunday morning. No props, no bendy pretzel moves, no broken kitchen chairs or cracked wall plaster to mend, no maple syrup to wash out of the sheets. Their bed is warm and the light from the window is pale, pure. Her hair is a dark shining pool against the white pillowcase. Her lips are rose red from his kisses, the tips of her breasts dusky pink. He likes the quietness and softness of right now. Her little moans and sighs. The sweat slowly beading on her neck. Her hands lightly tugging his hair, her calves sliding over his ass. Hovering over her little body with his huge one, sheltering her, protecting her. They even talk as they make love, a conversation with their mouths as their bodies sing.

"Remember our first time?" he murmurs, pushing deeply, slowly into her. "On my bed. We skipped school."

She keens, high and breathy, her eyes fluttering, taking a moment before answering, "Of course I remember. I was so nervous."

"Me too." He kisses her, smiling against her lips. "I was crap."

"You were sweet and...eager," she amends, lifting her hips to meet his.

He groans softly and rewards her with another delicate kiss. "No question."

That was ten years ago. They were just kids. He couldn't last longer than twenty seconds and they couldn't get enough of each other – they had sex everywhere, as much as possible, fast and hard and explosive and fierce, like they'd _die _if they didn't come _right __fucking __now_. It was intense and almost scary how much he needed her body back then.

In truth, not that much has changed, he realizes. She still makes him nervous – she's so beautiful, more so than ever, her distinctive features sleek and striking, all traces of adolescent awkwardness gone. And she's _famous_ now, actually famous; nearly every day someone stops her on the street to ask for her autograph. "Oh, I loved you in 'Sound of Music'!" or "Oh you were so evil on 'General Hospital', is your character coming back?" No, her character isn't coming back, she was eaten by lions, duh! It cracks him up. Not even soap opera people can come back from that. Presumably.

It's still pretty intense and scary how much he craves her. At twenty-six, he thinks about having sex with her just as much as he did when he was sixteen. But now the actual act is way way way _way_ better than it was when he was sixteen. Sometimes she asks if he slipped a Levitra because he lasts so long. That wins her a lot of points.

He feels it – she's going to come. Her eyes clench shut, her brow furrows, her teeth gnaw her lip, her whole body tightens like a drum as she loses control, as he pushes her slowly, gently, inextricably over. He lets himself go, claiming her, and they fall together, beautifully. He murmurs words of love, faith, and devotion to her as they crash.

It scares him how much he loves her because he knows he's the only man she's ever been with, and he wonders if _she_ wonders what it's like with others. She knows a lot of fancy people now, smart people, good-looking men, famous men and charming men. And who is he? Just a fireman. Just her husband. Just a lughead. Ten years with one person is a long time, especially at their age. Does she think of _them_ when he's making love to her? Does she sometimes imagine she's with _them_ instead? Rachel Berry Hudson has always been, will always be, enough for him – _more_ than enough! But he has to wonder, he can't help but wonder, it kills him to wonder if he's really enough for her now.

* * *

><p>"I'm trying to recapture the grittiness, the immediacy, the stylized languor of masters like Antonioni and Truffaut, but with a modern sensibility, <em>esprit <em>_de _Rattner _et_ Bay, _si __vous __voulez_," their dinner host, Mr. Harrick – oops, sorry, Blue, his name is _Blue_, Blue Harrick – says, smiling. The table erupts in laughter.

Oh, _Blue_ made a joke, it seems. Okay. He smiles and nods. It seems like the thing to do. Nod and smile, smile and nod. He's been doing it all night. His face kinda hurts. They've been here for _hours_. It's a vegan restaurant so he's still hungry – maybe she'll let him stop at the all-night pizza place on 54th on the way home. They have the best potato slice in town. Mmmm...potato slice. Garlic and pesto and potato and cheesy deliciousness. That thin layer of grease over the top, the way it dribbles down your chin as you take the first sweet sweet bite. Maybe he'll get two slices. And a diet Coke. Maybe he can convince her to get a slice - it's her favorite, too. Then they'll walk home, holding hands, and it'll be like old times, when they first moved here from Lima, walking together late at night, taking in the city. And then they'll put on their jammies and watch the Rangers game until she falls asleep in his arms. Make something of the night in the end. Oh, crap, did he set the DVR to record the Rangers game? Dung nuggets, please let it be there.

He surreptitiously sneaks his phone out to check the score. Down two goals in the first. Hmm.

The table erupts with laughter again. He missed something. Whatever. He doesn't bother nodding and smiling or pretending to understand or care what Mr. Fancypants British Accent Film Director Blue Harrick just said. No one's paying attention to him anyway – they're all too busy hanging on _Blue__'__s_ every word. He doesn't even know why he's here, this seems more like a business-type dinner – all these people are involved in Mr. Blow Hard Dick's upcoming film "Love In the Time of Anarchy". The producer dude, always checking his Blackberry. The other producer dude, drunk. The leading man, gay and closeted. The leading lady, showing a helluva lot of cleavage. Other people. He feels like the... _ninth_ wheel. Who needs a ninth wheel?

But Rachel had really wanted him to come. "Blue is so fantastic, you'll love him! You liked his movie 'Killer of Death', remember? I really want you to meet him." He figured this _Blue_ guy must be a decent dude if he cast Rachel.

But now he's not sure how decent a dude wearing fingerless leather gloves can really be. What, do his palms get really cold but his fingers stay warm? How does that work?

He feels a foot – Rachel's – nudge his under the table and realizes everyone is looking at him expectantly. "Sorry?" he asks vaguely, like he couldn't hear.

"I asked what you thought of 'Killer of Death' – your lovely wife said you liked it."

He glances at his lovely wife. She's giving him a lovely little smile but he can see the prodding in her lovely eyes – _Say __something, __Finn!_ "Oh. Yeah. It was cool." Blow Hard Dick is still looking at him like he wants a longer answer. He saw it _once_, on cable, like a year ago, and he's trying to remember what it was about but he mostly remembers that Rachel was wearing a leotard and doing stretches while it was on. "I liked all the...killing and death and...blood."

"The blood."

"Yeah. It had a lot of good violence."

Blow Hard Dick's eyebrow rises. "_Good_ violence." Blow Hard glances around the table, looking amused, then sets his lizardy gaze back on him. "The violence was actually intended ironically."

Can he hear crickets tweeting? Or is that the twitter of discreet laughter around the table? "Oh."

"It was a statement on just the sort of gratuitous violence one sees so often in mainstream Hollywood cinema. You see, I believe that we're so inundated-"

He frowns, confused, and interrupts. "But it had robots."

"Pardon?" Blow Hard Dick asks.

"'Killer of Death' had robots. CGI robots. They breathed fire. So how is that any different from any other mainstream Hollywood movie?" Now no one laughs. They're all staring at him again. Rachel is still smiling but it looks pasted in place. Blow Hard opens his mouth, but again he cuts him off, "I guess the robots were a satirical comment on the overdependence of Hollywood on digital imagery and modern technology?"

The producer, the drunk one, suddenly barks. Maybe it was a laugh. Hard to tell. Blow Hard gets splotchy, opening and closing his mouth a few times. Finally he says, "Yes. Yes it was."

He looks the guy right in the eye and smiles. "Cool."

* * *

><p>"Well, that was embarrassing," Rachel says as their taxi pulls away from the restaurant.<p>

"Why?" He knows why.

"Blue Harrick is a very important, influential-"

He rolls his eyes. "He's an asshole."

"He's my _boss_, Finn!"

"So I'm not allowed not have an opinion, I'm not allowed to have thoughts?"

"There's a time and place-"

He can't stop his mouth from running now, his anger taking over. "I'm just supposed to sit there and be pretty because I'm too stupid to talk to your friends?"

"Goddammit, Finn," she snaps, shaking her head. It shocks him a little - she doesn't swear that much, she thinks curse words taste bad in her mouth. "The only time you're stupid is when you call yourself stupid."

Well now he feels even _more_ stupid. He stares out his window, silent. She's silent, too. The tension is making his skin crawl. It's torture. Even the cab driver can't stand it – he turns up the radio, NPR papering over the silence.

When she speaks again, he almost can't hear her, her voice low and tight. "Is it that you don't want me to succeed?"

"_Now_ who's being stupid?" he shouts back, enraged, his voice filling the car.

That...that doesn't help things so much.

* * *

><p>She goes straight to bed without another word to him. He sits on the living room couch drinking beer, watching the Rangers game alone, in the dark, staring at it but not paying much attention.<p>

A commercial break. He gets up off the couch, wanders into the kitchen for another beer. He should go into the bedroom, instead. He knows he should. Go in there, sit on the edge of the bed next to her, stroke her cheek softly so she wakes up. Apologize. Beg forgiveness. "I'm sorry I'm such an insecure jerk, Rachel. I know this opportunity means a lot to you. I'm sorry that I embarrassed you. I guess I'm just scared. I don't want to lose you, honey bear. I don't know what I'd do without you." And she'd tell him that he'll never lose her and that there's nothing to be scared of because she loves him more than anything, more than _anything_, and then she'd take off his clothes and lay him down on the bed and climb on top of him to show him how very much she loves him. And everything would be okay again. He wants everything to be okay.

He shuts the fridge door, forgetting the beer, and turns to leave the kitchen, intent on making everything okay again. He kicks something in the dark, hears skittering and little bits rolling across the linoleum – the cat dish, cat food. "Shit," he mutters, switching on the overhead light to clean it up. Stooping down, he notices just how _much_ cat food there is. Weird. The dish is usually mostly empty by now, Captain Hook having polished it off through the day.

"Cap'n," he calls softly, scooping up the cat food. "Cap'n, come here, boy."

No Cap'n.

He checks the window seat in the sun nook. No Cap'n. He checks the laundry room, inside the dryer – sometimes he sleeps in there. Under the couch in the living room. The cat tree in the den. The guest room. No Cap'n. Finally, the master bedroom, turning on the bathroom light so he can see, softly calling as he crawls around on the floor looking under the sofa and under the bed.

"What are you doing?" Rachel asks irritably, peering down at him.

"Looking for the Captain. I can't find him."

"The cleaning lady probably let him out." He crawls across the floor to the closet, switching on the light in there. "Can you look in the morning, please? I have to be up early for rehearsals."

"So you don't care that our cat is missing?" he asks, standing up. "Great."

She throws herself back down onto her pillow, shutting her eyes, saying dismissively, "He's a cat. He'll be fine for one night."

He can't believe her indifference. The Captain is their baby, they've had him for more than seven years! And she just wants to go back to sleep? "What if he's run away?" he argues. She doesn't open her eyes but he hears her sigh heavily. "He probably went back to our old neighborhood. He doesn't like it up here, you know. It's too _hoity-toity_."

"Finn!" She half-sits up again. "I've had enough for one night! Can you please just _stop_!"

He wishes he could. He feels like he's been taken over by aliens or something. A childish, weak, jerky race of alien. They stare at each other across the room, the dim light making it hard to read her face, the moment stretching into something really unpleasant, something that feels...irreconcilable.

He grabs a coat from the closet, switching off the light and shutting the door too hard.

"Where are you going?" she asks sharply.

"I'm gonna go look for him." He opens his mouth to add to that, but when it starts to feel like something very ugly will come out, he shuts his trap.

"Fine, whatever. Turn the bathroom light off."

* * *

><p>He walks and walks and walks, unmindful of the cold, calling for the cat – not too loud because cats can hear real good, he knows – and shaking a little can of cat treats. He attracts a couple strays, but no Cap'n. He walks all the way to the pizza place on 54th. He stands in front of the window, looking through the steam at the couple of people eating inside. He's still hungry, a raw emptiness inside him. Maybe not <em>all<em> hunger.

He goes in, orders two potato slices and a diet Coke. Sits at the window counter watching the passing car lights, ghostly and strange through the condensation on the window. The pizza looks the same - garlic, cheese, grease, pesto, potato - but it doesn't taste the same. It doesn't taste as good. It doesn't taste like much at all, in fact. He still feels hollow inside after the first slice so he leaves the second to grow cold and forgotten. He sips his drink and absently draws shapes in the steam – squiggles. Squiggles forming hearts.

Hearts forming the letter "R".

The letter "R" stretching out into "Rachel".

* * *

><p>"<em><strong>feel I've been sleeping, might have looked but I've never seen..."<strong>_

The timing isn't great. Two weeks later and it would've been fine – Rachel would be done filming and she'd have all the time in the world to play tour guide to an old friend and said old friend's daughter. But as it is, he's got a couple days off and Rachel is still working twelve to fourteen hours every day on Long Island. "I'll probably be able to get back here by seven, we can all have dinner together," she says, pulling on her boots. It's not even six a.m. – he's still half-asleep, not in any condition to disagree or argue. The intercom buzzes. "That's my ride. See you later. Give them my love."

And she's out the door. No kiss goodbye. Hasn't been one since the night the cat went missing. The cat's _still_ missing. He put up fliers around the neighborhood, offering a reward – the couple of bites turned out _not_ to be the Captain, just assholes trying to make some money. Rachel keeps saying he'll come back when he wants to. Who would want to come back here, to this cold place where two cold people share a cold bed and can barely string together a conversation anymore?

He rolls over to go back to sleep, dreading the day ahead, dreading having to play host to Quinn Fabray and her daughter Beth.

At worst, he's indifferent to Quinn now; it's been a long time since high school, a long time since he got over what she did to him. They were glee teammates and eventually she became friends with Rachel. He even used to go with Rachel to babysit Baby Beth – it was fun playing house together, playing Mommy and Daddy, and he cared about Beth, he couldn't help but care. But he was never Quinn's friend again.

Rachel has kept in touch with them, he knows, but he hasn't seen them since he and Rachel went back to Lima to get married. He remembers Quinn being there, how she came through the reception line offering congratulations with Beth, who was not a baby anymore but a tiny blonde replica of her mother. He remembers hugging mother and daughter and then promptly forgetting about them because he was so excited and overwhelmed by the fact that he'd just married Rachel Berry, that Rachel Berry was his _wife_, that she looked so gorgeous and happy in her wedding dress, that he couldn't wait to get her alone so he could take it off her and make her _really _happy. That was the best day of his life. He thought he was going to explode from the love he felt for her that day.

"Give them my love," Rachel had said. Yeah, give _them_ her love. How about she gives it to him instead, her _husband_?

He sickly wishes for some major catastrophe, a bomb or a fire in some skyscraper, so he'll get called into work. Fighting fires, battling disaster, dodging danger – _that_ he can deal with, gladly and efficiently. The rest of this shit is just...shit.

He falls asleep waiting for his beeper to go off.

* * *

><p>New York City is catastrophe-free today, wrapped safely in the warmth of pre-Christmas and middle-of-Hanukah glad tidings and good cheer. And Quinn Fabray looks the same as she always has. Maybe a bit tired around the eyes, actually. And her hair is different than he remembers it – shorter, practical, mom-ish. Beth isn't the little blonde clone she once was; she's got a tomboy streak running through her now and when she smiles, it's actually more of a grin – <em>Puck<em>_'__s_ grin. It's freaky but charming.

"Have you seen Puck lately?" he asks as they walk through a very snowy Central Park, Beth running ahead of them to see a couple of mounted policemen and their horses.

"I see him around town. And when he comes over to take her to soccer practice or choir practice or whatever."

"How is he?"

"He's...okay. Not good, not bad, just okay."

"And how are you?"

She half-smiles. "I'm okay, too. Busy with her, of course. I'm usually busy at Sheets 'N' Things this time of year, but when my cousin invited us up to Connecticut for the holidays, I just thought 'Why not? We need a vacation for once.' And the city is so amazing."

"Yeah. Best this time of year. Everyone's nicer to each other."

"Life in the big city seems to be treating you guys well," Quinn says sincerely.

"Things are really, really good with us," he lies convincingly, not sure why he feels the need to. "Busy, of course, like you said. But we're living our dream, so what could be better than that?"

Quinn nods, like she's absorbing his words. He feels like an asshole. "They did a story about Rachel and the movie she's shooting in the Lima Lancer-Gazette."

"Oh, yeah, I saw that. Her dads clipped the article and sent it to us." He smiles to himself, thinking of it. They used an old yearbook photo of Rachel in the story. She looked so perky and cute in it. But the best part of the photo was that her blouse was mis-buttoned in it, askew because they'd been having sex in the janitor's closet just minutes before it was taken. The evidence of their raging teenage hormones immortalized forever in the Thunderclap. If you look at his own yearbook photo, just a page and a half over from hers, the evidence is there in the huge, dopey smile on his flushed face.

His smile today fades when he recalls Rachel's reaction to the Lima Lancer-Gazette article. She didn't seem to remember why her shirt was mis-buttoned in that photo and was more concerned that they spelled Blue Harrick's name incorrectly. Twice.

"It sounds amazing, the movie," Quinn is saying.

He controls his features, the way he was trained to do in all those acting classes he used to take, so Quinn won't see him grimace. "Yeah, it should be awesome. I can't wait to see it. She's been working really hard on it." He knows she's about to ask more about it so he acts fast, calling out to Beth. "Hey, Beth, come here! I want to show you something."

Beth turns her attention away from the horses and runs back to them. "What is it, Mr. Hudson?"

He points across the meadow to a hill on the other side. "See that? They have a toboggan run on that hill."

"Really?" Her green eyes light up.

"Yeah, you like sledding?"

"Totally!" the little girl shouts, jumping up and down. He laughs at her enthusiasm, catching some of it. "But we don't have a sled."

"You can rent one," he tells her. "One of the beauties of living in New York – you can rent anything."

"Can we go, mom?"

"Of course," Quinn answers. "I'll just watch, though. My sledding days are over."

"Will you go sledding, Mr. Hudson?" she asks hopefully.

He frowns, rubbing his chin very thoughtfully. "I dunno... Looks pretty scary. Will you ride with me so I don't chicken out?"

"Totally. I'm not afraid."

"Afterwards, we might have to get some hot chocolate to calm my nerves," he adds. Quinn smiles warmly at him and he winks.

"Come on, let's go!" It surprises him when Beth grabs his gloved hand and pulls, but he holds on tight as they run across the field together, Quinn following in her own time. He glances back at her, sees her smile, the light in her eyes. She doesn't look so tired anymore.

* * *

><p>Quinn is greasing a pan for cornbread and he's showing Beth how to crack eggs without getting any shell in the bowl when his phone rings. He wipes his hands off and fishes into his pocket. Rachel. Probably calling to tell him she's on her way home. Inexplicably, he feels sorta odd about it, a little ambivalent. He's been enjoying himself more than he ever expected with Quinn and Beth, playing in the park, getting snacks after, going grocery shopping, cooking. He almost forgot Rachel was going to be joining them.<p>

"Hey, Rach," he answers, trying to sound upbeat. "Where are you?"

"I'm still on set," she says.

He frowns. "But it's almost six-thirty now."

"I know, I know, but the director-" The "director", she always calls him now, instead of Blue, because she knows how he hates him. Like avoiding saying his name is the same as avoiding talking about him. "-needs to go overtime tonight to get the shot he wants. So I'm still here."

He doesn't answer for a long moment. "How long?" he asks flatly.

"Dunno. Maybe an hour, maybe two. No idea."

He doesn't even bother to let his anger flare – what's the point anymore? "Quinn and Beth are here. We're making chili and cornbread. You want to say hi?"

"Yeah, put them on. And Finn?"

"Yeah?"

"I'm sorry." She does sound sorry, her voice heavy with emotion. She sounds tired.

"Doesn't matter," he answers automatically, dismissive. He thinks he hears her sigh. "Hang on." He turns to Quinn and Beth, sees their disappointment. "Rachel isn't sure she'll be able to make it, but she wants to say hi," he says, holding out his phone.

Quinn takes it, her fingers barely brushing his as she does. Their conversation is all pleasantries and quick catching up and regrets that they might not be able to see each other. He listens as Beth tells Rachel how she hoped they could sing Christmas songs together when she got home, how Beth listens to her cast recordings all the time. He listens as Rachel has to ring off, being called to set.

"I really wanted to see Aunt Rachel," Beth says sadly after she's hung up.

"I know, baby."

He beats the cornbread batter hard, but keeps his voice light as he promises, "We can have fun, even if she's not here. Do you know how to play...Rock Band?", knowing full well she does because Quinn told him she's getting Rock Band Miley Cyrus for her Christmas present.

"I love Rock Band! I always beat mom when we play."

"Because you never let me sing," Quinn defends. "I always have to play the guitar or the bass."

"But you can't sing!" Beth argues, her callowness innocent.

"She can too sing," he says. "She's an excellent singer! We were in glee club together in high school, so believe me, I know." He leans down on the counter, so they're on the same level now. "Why don't we let mom sing a few tonight and I'll show you how to play the drums."

"Okay," Beth agrees, grinning.

He grins back. "Cool."

* * *

><p>"You seeing anyone these days?" Wow, he does <em>not<em> know why he asked that. They were just washing the dishes, cleaning up after dinner, Beth in the den updating her Facebook status, having soundly beaten them _both_ at Rock Band earlier - they certainly weren't talking about her love life. They were talking about the old days, laughing about how they all used to play Rock Band at Artie Abrams' house. He didn't mean to ask her that, no way - even if he has been wondering about it all day. She seems surprised, too, blushing, looking down at the soapy dishes. "Sorry. It's none of my business."

"It's okay. I haven't really been," she says slowly. "The dating pool in Lima is a bit shallow."

"Ah. Yeah." It sorta makes him sad, actually, that she's all alone. Whatever past lays between them, she deserves to be happy. And Beth is fantastic – cute and spunky and smart. They deserve to have someone there for them. Everyone does, he knows. He tells her so.

"I am happy, Finn," she says quietly, rinsing her hands, done with the dishes. He hands her a towel, stepping closer.

"Are you?" he asks, briefly touching her shoulder.

She shrugs and won't look up at him. "What is happy? If anyone were _really_ happy, what would we have left to aspire to? I'm..._okay_, remember?"

"Do you ever wonder..." he starts softly, leaning down a little. He hesitates, making her look up. She blinks a few times, her pretty eyes uncertain. He sees fine creases around them. "Do you ever wonder what woulda happened if-if-"

"Finn-"

"If we hadn't broken up? If we'd been a family?" He touches her shoulder again, leaving his hand there.

"If you had never learned the truth, you mean?"

"If things had worked out differently."

"We were never meant to be, Finn. You and Rachel were-"

"Do you ever wonder?" he interrupts, insistent.

She blinks again, her eyes moist now. Ever so slightly, she nods, whispering, "Yes."

So he kisses her.

Her lips are warm and soft. But they're not full and ripe and thrilling and perfect. They're still, immobile. So he kisses her more firmly, his lips moving over hers, his hand sliding up to cup the back of her head. He can't remember the last time he kissed her – where it was, what it was like. He wants her to kiss him back and make him remember.

But then Quinn is leaning back, pushing his hand off. "Stop, stop," she says, stepping away from him. "This isn't happening."

Fuck. He squeezes his eyes shut, feeling sick to his stomach. "I'm sorry," he mutters miserably, opening his eyes. "I'm _sorry_." But she's not looking at him, she's looking past him, her face stricken and pained. His stomach falls to the floor and he turns around, already knowing what he'll see. And he does.

He sees Rachel. Standing at the kitchen door. Still wearing her heavy winter coat. Snowflakes clinging to her hair. Her cheeks flushed red. Staring at him. Her stare is colder than the weather outside.

He stares back. No words come. He's frozen.

"We're gonna go," Quinn says quietly, trying to slip out of the kitchen. But she pauses before Rachel. "I'm so sorry, Rachel. We weren't...it wasn't-"

She's still staring at him, even as she says plainly, conversationally, "It's okay, Quinn. Wait for me, I'll walk down with you."

Quinn goes. He can hear her call for Beth.

He feels...nothing. He feels like nothing. "Rachel," is the best he can manage to strangle out. It's pathetic and useless.

"You really are _stupid_," she says bitterly. Quinn used to call him stupid all the time. Everyone did. Some still do. He's used to it. He calls himself stupid regularly. Rachel never has. Never, in all these years together. Not once has she ever called him _stupid_ the way she did just now. Like she really means it. He feels like she just punched him in the throat. It buckles his knees. It's a shockwave, leaving him breathless and blind.

She turns away, leaving him there alone in the kitchen. Leaving him alone. Leaving him.

* * *

><p>"<em><strong>your soul so peaceful, how could I have been so mean..."<strong>_

"Hud, are you coming, going, or something in between?" Rodriguez asks, striding into the kitchen.

His head snaps up from his cup of coffee and he tries to focus in. "Huh? What? Huh?"

"Three excellent questions. Are you just arriving, just leaving, or neither?"

Maybe he's had too much coffee. Or not enough. Words aren't making much sense right now but he tries to cover, sitting up straighter and taking a stab with, "Neither."

"You been picking up a few extra shifts, I hear."

He shrugs and buries his face in a long sip of sugary coffee. "A few."

"Three shifts in a row ain't _a_ _few_, son," Roddy retorts. "That's overkill."

He shrugs again and gets up, scraping his chair on the tiles. Pouring another large cup of coffee, his ninth? tenth? of the night, he tries to explain. "Lots of guys needing extra time off to get their Christmas shopping done, I guess."

"Mm-hmm," he hears Roddy grumble. "How about you? Your Christmas shopping done?"

He dumps a heap of sugar into his cup and stirs, playing dumb – easy for him. "Yep, all done!"

"Yeah? What'd you get Rachel?"

"Oh, you know...this and that. Jewelry?"

Roddy is staring at him, squinting, waiting for more. But he's not going to elaborate. Nope, denial is the best medicine. Denial and lots and lots of caffeine. And keeping busy busy busy. Gotta keep moving.

Roddy takes a step closer, lowering his voice, sounding concerned. "Everything okay at home, Finn?"

Roddy reminds him of Mr. Schuester right now, strongly and unexpectedly, and he feels something well up inside him. It squeezes his chest tight. The words tremble in his throat – he wants to tell him everything, like he used to tell Mr. Schue things, laying his problems out for his mentor, asking for his help and advice. Ask him how things got to this point - so fucked up, so _backwards_. This isn't how their dreams are supposed to go!

The air is split by a shrill ringing – the fire bell. It startles him and he nearly drops his coffee, but at the same time it's a relief. Back to work. Action. Saved by the goddamn bell. "That's us, dude." He dumps his cup into the sink and spins around, giving Rodriguez a big grin, feeling it stretch uncomfortably over his mouth. "Let's hit it!"

He jogs out of the kitchen and pretends he doesn't see the worried, grim frown creasing Roddy's face.

* * *

><p>He hears Roddy bark at him to "<em>Wait<em>, goddammit!" but he doesn't wait, he runs on ahead and he knows it's a mistake but momentum, and something more desperate and illogical than that, carry him through, right on through the door, because he heard shouts inside, he _knows_ he did – they're trapped, he's gotta reach them, he's gotta save them, he's gotta be a hero.

The wood splinters beneath him as he crashes through and fire spreads up his shoulder and arm just as fire spreads all around him, sudden and engulfing, the flames heretofore trapped and starved, given life and breath by his entrance.

He hears the _woosh_ and feels the heat and sees orange, _only_ orange, no one trapped and needing saving, and he thinks to himself "_This __is __it."_

* * *

><p>The painkillers don't do much to lessen the sting when the back of Roddy's hand connects with his face.<p>

"Ow! What the hell, man!"

"That's for being _stupid_," Roddy rebukes him.

"Stop calling me that!" he roars, sitting up fast in his hospital bed, sending sharp pangs shooting up his arm and shoulder and into his neck, making him wince.

"What am I supposed to call you when you disobey my command and go charging off like a madman?"

"I thought there were people trapped up there." He glares, but Roddy knows how to glare like a _mofo_, so he's outmatched. And he knows the older man is right. Of course he is. So he slowly sits back again, careful of his arm in the sling. "You didn't have to hit me. I'm injured here."

"You're suspended for two weeks."

"What?" He looks down at his sling. It's just a sprained shoulder and a few cuts, not even thirty stitches in total. "I'm not _that_ injured."

"No, Hud. Not medical leave. _Suspended._ A black mark on your record."

He frowns. "My permanent record?"

Roddy nods. "The Captain will be around later to tell you so himself."

Oh shit. This is _bad_. If he learned anything from Rachel during their high school years, it was the grave seriousness of one's _permanent __record_. "But I-but I can't! I need to work, man!"

Roddy sits down in the chair next his bed, leaning forward, saying not unkindly, "No, what you need to do is go home and straighten things out with Rachel."

He looks away, eyes darting to the TV hanging on the wall - three a.m. infomercials for craptastic junk.

"Hud. What happened?"

He stares at the TV, stubborn. What are they selling? It's either work-at-home work or Jesus, it's not clear to him.

"Okay. Well. If you're not gonna talk to me..." Roddy gets up from his seat, heads for the door. "I'm just gonna go call her and tell her you're here, injured, in the hospital, being a baby, and that she should come get you-"

"She left me," he blurts finally, flatly.

That stops Roddy. He comes back to the chair, rubbing his hand over his face. "Why?"

He shrugs – more fire races up his neck. _Shit_. "It's complicated."

"Usually is." Roddy sits, letting out a long breath, looking at him sadly.

"Has Jen ever left you?" he asks, curious.

"No," Roddy answers immediately. "Know why?"

"Why?"

"Because I'm not stupid."

He scowls, still annoyed. "Thanks."

"Lookit. They're discharging you in a couple hours. You have two weeks now. Go home. Call her, see her, beg her forgiveness, whatever you have to do. Just sort it out," Roddy advises.

Sort it out. Sure. Simple. Why didn't he think of that before?

"I'm not going to your funeral if you get yourself killed next time around, you hear me, Hud? And Rachel will kill _me_ if I let you get killed. Sort it out. That's an order."

* * *

><p>When Roddy drops him off at home, it's just barely light out, the sky leaden and heavy. It's going to snow today. His friend doesn't say much but leaves him with a look – a reminder. Yeah, yeah – sort it out. He's got it. He just doesn't know how to <em>do<em> it.

He's picked up the phone to call Rachel exactly three times since she left. The first time, it rang and rang and finally went to her voicemail. And he hung up. She would see that he called and she could call him back if she wanted to. And she did. He missed it – he was out on a run, a car accident in midtown. She didn't leave a voicemail either.

So he picked up the phone a second time. Scrolled down to her entry in his phonebook – "Honey Bear". Stared at it. Couldn't think of a damn thing to say. Felt like he was paralyzed inside. No emotions. No pain. No soul. Empty, hollow, barren, all those other adjectives. So he closed his phone.

The third time he only got as far as opening his phone.

He goes into their building and waves off the doorman's concerns about his very apparent injuries, smiling at him reassuringly, cracking some joke about getting "hazard pay", hardly knowing what he's saying, on auto-pilot. He's been on auto-pilot all week, fueled by coffee and adrenaline. As soon as the elevator doors close, he feels his face fall back into place, back into stasis-mode.

The painkillers are wearing off and he's suddenly bone-tired. Auto-pilot has now malfunctioned and he's going to crash, it seems. He needs to sleep. He'll sleep. _Then_ he'll sort it out.

The elevator comes to a stop and he drags himself out and down the hall, digging his keys from his pocket. It takes too long to get the key working – he's not used to doing it left-handed and the pain is distracting. But when he finally stumbles through the door and into the entry hall, he stops dead in his tracks, the pain and sleep and a thousand other things forgotten, the keys falling from his hand and clattering on the hardwood floor. He'd given up hope, he realizes now, painfully. He'd given up.

Captain Hook is sitting in the middle of the hall, staring up at him through his one good eye, like the Captain has been expecting him, like _he__'__s_ been the missing one.

"Cap'n?"

The cat pads toward him, rubbing his little cat head affectionately against his pant leg, all forgiven.

And the floodgates open wide, swift and powerful.

A great heaving sob wracks through his body, tears blinding him as he stoops down and picks up the Captain, burying his face in the Captain's soft fur, hugging the poor thing tightly. The Captain, independent cat that he is, usually cuddles on his own terms, squirming and fighting free if he doesn't want to be held. But today, he doesn't squirm, doesn't try to escape, perhaps sensing his owner's need for comfort.

And so he stands in the middle of the hallway, the door still half-open behind him, clutching their cat and weeping like a child.

* * *

><p>"<em><strong>feel I've been sleeping, I'm born to be with you..."<strong>_

He drives up to the security guard at the gate and pats the cat-carrier on the seat next to him. "Cat wrangler," he says absently. He doesn't care if the guard believes him or not – he'll run over the guy and bust through the gate if he has to. But the dude waves him through, telling him where to park.

As he pulls into the lot and finds a space, his knee bouncing restlessly, he's reminded of something from long ago. The night he drove to Rachel's house to pick her up after his mom explained how babies were _actually_ made (how fucking embarrassing and terrible had that conversation been?). It was so late, the world asleep and quiet, but he'd been more wired than the Eastern power grid, vibrating from the inside out at the speed of light. He remembers how desperate and shaky he felt. Until the moment his new love Rachel Berry was in his arms.

He feels the same way now, but it's mixed with a strange combination of Vicadin, the stress of driving out of the city, and his lack of sleep. It's a miracle he made it here in one piece. Or however many pieces he's currently in, grimacing as he accidentally bumps his shoulder getting the Captain, in his carrier, out of the car.

He follows the yellow production signs to base camp, finding the cluster of trailers but having no idea which one he wants. And no one seems to be around to point him in the right direction. He figures it must be lunchtime and maybe that's a good thing, actually, because he must look like a crazy person, arm in a sling, both desperate- and glassy-eyed, hair gone wild, carrying a cat crate.

"Meow," the Captain complains.

"I know, I shoulda called ahead I guess," he answers. Shit, he actually _has_ gone crazy. Maybe he should just start bellowing out her name as he wanders around. He auditioned for Stanley in "Streetcar" once – he didn't get it, but this is totally his Stanley moment come to life.

"You, young man!" he hears someone call out behind him. Ack, it's the fuzz! Turning around, he immediately recognizes the man – one of the producer dudes. The drunk one. The one who barked at him. He has no idea what the guy's name is. Alan? Ron? What's-His-Name is hurrying towards him, looking excited. "Just the man I wanted to talk to!"

He looks around – clearly What's-His-Name is calling to someone behind him. But no, the producer comes right up to him, smiling, like he really has been waiting to talk to him. "Me?"

"I'd shake your hand but you seem to be out of hands."

"I'm-I'm Rachel Berry's husband," he offers, trying to clarify the confusion.

"Oh, I know, I remember well! You are the man who gave Mr. Blue Harrick the verbal dressing-down he so richly and so long deserved." The producer claps him on his good shoulder. It only hurts a little bit. "You're my hero. And you're a genius, young man!"

Well. That's a first. "Um, thanks?"

"Can I tell you how _long_ I'd been waiting to say exactly what you said? Christ almighty, I can't wait 'til this shoot is over," he mutters.

"Um, I really need to find-"

But What's-His-Name goes on, "Now then, I'm glad you're here. The project I'm developing next is about firefighters and I'd love to pick your brain about being a New York City fireman because you, in fact, are the perfect prototype for the protagonist, the hero of the piece. Let me buy you lunch and we'll talk about it, how would that be?"

He has no idea what to say to that at the moment, slightly overwhelmed and slightly out of it due to the drugs. "Uh, I appreciate all that and everything, but I kinda really need to find my wife right now."

"Oh, sure! No problem, I'll show you." The producer gingerly gets him pointed in the right direction and leads him through the maze of trailers. "Just let me tell you more about the basic idea of the story while we walk..."

* * *

><p>With the producer's card jammed in his back pocket – Cal, his name is Cal, it turns out – and a promise made to have lunch with Cal in the city, he's finally alone before Rachel's trailer. He's nervous. Or excited. Or scared. Or manic. Or about to detonate. Or all of the above. He puts down the Captain's crate and knocks, his hand trembling.<p>

"Give me ten more minutes, please!" he hears her shout from inside. It's hard to tell through the door, but her voice sounds strange to his ear. He's more anxious than ever now. He opens the door slowly. It's dim inside, the lights off. He can't quite see her. She shouts again, "I said I need ten more minutes!"

She sounds very much unlike herself. His eyes adjust and he can see her now, huddled on the little couch under a big blanket, her head turned away from the door. "Rachel?" he says, worried, stepping inside, shutting the door behind him.

Her dark head snaps around. "Finn?" She's suddenly on her feet, the blanket falling to the floor, and she's standing before him in her thick pink bathrobe, surprise written all over her pale, blotchy face. Her eyes, red and raw, are just as surprised as she takes him in, takes in his sling. "Finn, what happened!"

But he's speaking at the same time, his words echoing hers, "Rachel, what's the matter?"

Her eyes well up and overflow, tears following old tracks down her cheeks, but she doesn't answer his question, asking desperately, in a rush of words, "You're hurt—oh my god you got _hurt,_ what happened, are you _okay_?"

He puts the cat down, ignoring his meows, and steps closer. He touches her face tenderly. "Why are you crying, angel?"

Her lip wobbles a little and the tears flow harder, her voice choked as she admits, "I don't know what I'm doing anymore! I don't know what I'm _doing_... I'm so tired, Finn."

He pulls her close as she leans into him, burying her face against his coat as he holds her with his one good arm, clinging to her as she clings to him, murmuring senselessly into her hair, his own tears getting it damp, "I'm sorry, Rachel. I'm so sorry, I'm so fucking sorry, I love you so much..."

* * *

><p>They sit, facing each other on the small couch, knees pressed together, their hands brushing and touching as they pet the cat curled up in her lap. She speaks quietly, her tears dry now, telling him how hard the shoot has been, how it's gone over schedule and over budget, how big an asshole Blue Harrick really has been throughout.<p>

"I've worked with assholes before, though," she says. "But I could always get through it because I had _you_ to come to home to. You gave me the strength and reason to go on." Guilt, a hot, sharp blade, cuts through his heart and he's about to say something. She senses it and stops him. "I'm the one who left, Finn."

"Because I pushed you away," he answers.

Her brow furrows. She can't look at him. "I thought you were tired of me, tired of putting up with my brand of crazy. I know I'm high-maintenance. I know I've been busy and bitchy lately-"

"No! No, god no," he says emotionally. "Rachel, no. It was me. I was so scared to lose you that I did everything I could to make sure I _did_. I was scared and I thought-I thought you didn't need me anymore. I thought you'd outgrown me."

She looks shocked, horrified by his words. Her own words are blunt, honest, clear. "How could I not need my heart anymore? I can't live without it. How could I outgrow my soul? It's stitched to my bones."

Since that day she came up to him at his locker at school and told him he was special - this girl he hardly knew peering inside his soul, this so-called loser, this insane, terrifying, rather intriguing, surprising, shockingly talented girl - her words have had power over him. The power to make him more, the power to make him see, the power to move him, the power to make him whole. _Such_ power. Nothing's changed from that day since.

"Don't let me be so stupid ever again," he whispers, squeezing her hand.

"And don't let _me_ be so stupid, either," she insists.

He picks up the cat and sets him on the floor, reaching out and pulling Rachel closer, pulling her against him, because he can't take another second where he's not kissing her. Her lips, so full and ripe and thrilling as always, her mouth warming him, chasing away the last bits of cold emptiness. Their kiss igniting them both.

He leans back against the couch and she follows, half-laying upon him, making those soft sounds in her throat. "I need you," she murmurs, her hands moving to his hips, finding the closure on his jeans.

He shifts beneath her so she can better straddle him, saying between kisses, "I need you more."

He feels her smile. "No, I need _you_ more," she argues, undoing the buttons on his pants, slipping her hand inside.

"I need you way..._way_ more," he draws out, breathless, feeling her hand close around his cock, getting him hard, so goddamn hard. He opens her bathrobe and finds she's in her underwear, plain gray cottons. He rubs his hand over her breast and she leans into his touch, smiling in relief. He slides his hand down slowly, slowly, and under the waist of her panties, curling his fingers into her soft heat.

"Not as much as I need you," she groans, her hips grinding against his touch. God, she's so wet, and she's so beautiful, a rosy flush filling her cheeks, her tongue slipping out to wet her lips.

Her hand is skillful and fluid, moving faster, driving him mad, pushing him quickly to a very good place, and he matches her pace, his fingers plunging deep inside her, his thumb grazing her button. They're urgent, impatient, greedy, running as fast as they can, like they're going to die if they don't come _right__fucking__now._ His voice is low and hoarse but he manages to say to her, "Let's only fight like _this_ from now on."

"Agreed."

* * *

><p>There's a lot left to say between them, but they don't say it yet – there's time for that later, they agree. They're quite, enjoying the afterglow, and he holds her, feeling himself start to drift into long-ignored sleep.<p>

"This couch pulls out into a bed," she says quietly. She always could read his mind.

A knock at the door rouses him and he feels how suddenly she tenses up. "We need you on set in ten, Ms. Berry." She sighs heavily, her breath hot on his skin. She doesn't answer, so there's another knock.

"Okay, coming," she calls tightly. He strokes her back, soothingly, trying to calm her. Trying to calm himself, too. It would be easy to blame that "director" for her wound-up state, his douchebaggery making her cry alone in her trailer, making her dread going back to work. But the truth is it's not all the director's fault, and that's what has him really upset. He's so angry at _himself_, first and foremost. But she doesn't need his anger right now.

"Baby bear?" she starts timidly. "Will you come with me?"

He hesitates. He wants nothing more than to go to set with her, hold her hand the whole way, kiss her softly good luck, plunder the craft services table, and, yes, punch the director really hard in the face.

"No," he finally responds. "No, I won't." She gasps a little and he sits up, making her sit up too so he can look at her, so she can understand him. "Rachel, you're _Rachel__Berry_. You're a star. Go out there and be the star you are, the star you've always been. I'll be here, I'll be right here. I'll be waiting for you. And when you're done out there, you can come back here to me and I'll take care of you. Come back and be _my_ Rachel Berry." He smiles at her. "My sweet Rachel Berry Hudson."

Her smile grows slowly but steadily, quickly reaching her eyes and making them sparkle like sunlight on snow. Her smile lights up the room, his heart, his whole world, and it shines so bright. The smile of his one and only star.

"Always," she promises.

* * *

><p>"<em><strong>our love is waking, you're born to be with me..."<strong>_

"What time is your meeting today?"

"Eleven-thirty."

"And Cal will be there?" The not-_always_-drunk-just-_occasionally_-drunk Cal. Not just a producer but also their friend, a good man hiding beneath some chemical dependency.

"Plus the executive producer and the director. Those two are gonna take some convincing. They're not a hundred percent sold on me."

"You'll win them over, I know you will."

"Well, from what I've heard, the director is a total asshole."

He grins. "'Asshole' must be in the job description for directors. Assholes only need apply."

She scoots closer under the sheet so she can kiss his cheek and then rests her head on his shoulder, her hand reaching up to lightly stroke the fine, dark hair of the baby sleeping peacefully on his chest. His smile is just as peaceful as their child because the two most important people in all the world are snuggled in his arms, their skin pressed to his. Even the cat is here, curled up between his feet. His whole world is in this bed.

He knows well that life isn't perfect. But sometimes it is. And he knows, too, that happiness isn't a constant. But for right now, it is.

He closes his eyes, his family's soft breathing lulling him to sleep. But then suddenly, something occurs to him. His eyes pop open and he could kick himself for nearly forgetting to tell her about it. "Oh! I just read something about the director guy in the trades the other day."

"Yeah?" she says idly, her finger gingerly tracing the tiny pink ear and the smooth, perfect, tiny pink cheek.

"He just gave a pile of cash to the volunteer fire department in his old hometown. Forktown, up in Vermont."

"He's from someplace called _Forktown_?" Rachel giggles.

"Pay attention to the wisdom I'm trying to impart here, mama bear," he scolds lightly. "They needed a new ladder truck and couldn't afford one 'cuz of budget cuts, so he bought one for them. Can you believe that?"

"So the lesson is he's not a _total_ asshole."

"It's actually a two-part lesson," he says. She laughs again. "If you just _happen_ to mention that your adoring, brave-"

"Smokin' hot."

"-totally rad husband is a firefighter, he'll totally be won over," he finishes, grinning.

She props herself up, looking at him with serious, radiant eyes, the pride and adoration he sees there making his stomach flip over. "That's a really good idea, Finn."

"Really?"

"Yes," she answers, smiling confidently, her hand moving away from the baby and traveling south, making his stomach flip over again, making him shiver all over.

"Let me put her down," he murmurs gently, slipping out of bed and padding across the room, laying their daughter Pink Lady Hudson in her crib, tucking her pink blanket securely around her as she yawns in her sleep. He bends down to give her a tender kiss before turning back to Rachel. She's kneeling on the bed, naked, pushing her long hair off her face, staring at him intently.

"And what are you looking at, mama bear?" he asks, giving her a lop-sided smile.

"Your smokin' hot rear end," she answers straightforwardly. He feels himself start to blush. "Bring it here, papa bear."

* * *

><p>THE END.<p>

**A/N: Thanks for reading and commenting!**


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